Ivory and gold



The first touch is always the deepest. I can still feel the first time his hand brushed mine, the way his skin was a mix of smoothed skin and small calluses. Rough and fine, tender and hard. A walking dichotomy bound with skin and blood. The first time I really saw him, was moments after the first of the mud was slung. It stuck firm to my cheek, hanging from my face like a tumour. And suddenly he was this divine creature. An untouchable. Every school girls dream.

And images would dance provocative and dangerous on the outskirts of my peripherary, clouding my perception, making the world and the lenses through which I viewed him opaque and dense. I wanted to feel his lips touch mine, not just the way they would brush against the curve of my neck as he'd whisper things to me in a crowded room. I wanted to bite that bottom lip and feel it swell beneath the weight of my mouth. Feel his pulse pumping and throbbing in the moist depths of our melted mouths.

I wanted to rip open his chest and crawl inside. Surround myself in his flesh, his bones. I wanted to be his Eve and return to his ribs for him to create me anew. I wanted to be a part of him, more than what I already was. And though it pained, though this obsession entwined itself and bound me like ivy winding, binding itself up a trellis of ivory and gold I wore my painted skin and pushed and repressed until I believed it was merely dreams that haunted my slumber.



2004-01-21 2:06 p.m.