The strum……….. There you were, when I would ask you to sit close but you wanted to sit, leaning against me. You had unbuttoned your blouse and held my hands in your hands to warm them. You talked in a polite melodic high-pitched manner, evocative over topic. Spacing your sentences further apart then the words themselves as if conversation were stepping aside to reveal a more glorious array. Eventually, almost in spite of the conversational cadence, you would free my hands from the cover of yours. As if heated doves would naturally rise into the sky, my right hand found your left breast waiting, unguarded, actually passively bursting to meet my touch. The rest of your body gave me that message. The greeting was slow but deliberate. The pride of ample would declare. You reseated yourself against me, almost aligned. Your voice, by tone, was noticeably down shifted, slowing in the pronouncement of your words. The topic, not lost but spoken from more deeply within you. In time, you would take back the weight of your breast, out of my hand and advance me just to the areola, not the prime but the circular span before the rise. You would somehow ask me to walk with you there, in small circles as we continued to talk. I selected certain fingers to oblige and to anoint you along the way. And so we would continue to move, fingers to nipple, skin-to-skin, nervous system-to-nervous system, until we were secured right there, going nowhere else. On the way, your voice changed within you, reflected in replies, but not saying directly, many states of your person. It would respond and release unsaid things through words, which stood for but did not make clear mention from what you really said. Eventually, home would arrive, your voice, now breathy and lower, would reveal somethings compressed that needed the light of speech and the fresh air of being said. An intimacy of self let out, onto the presence of another being, sometimes, from ages past, sometimes, from just a sense of being alive. Flow was not so much the words as measure. But now the words floated by in an ocean’s presence. Where my fingers touched, an initial island arose, only then to recede as if the tides of relaxation were going out. No matter how slow the motion, each fingertip was met without further purpose or distraction. Clock or counter did not interpret towards a measure in time. If there were a pause, as if to ask, this question sprung from, “why aren’t all moments like these to start with?” But for then, too complicated to create a response. This is what is and the pauses became circumspect. Slowly we, as entities, would fill and what was empty, would become full. If I appeared as the strum, in time, the music would last far beyond the song. Eventually a page would turn, a songbook sung, as messengers to each other, we would part without reluctance, for the conversation had moved beyond the words. Both of us were seen in a different light, considered out of sight, the vision lingered, layered into a blend with normal life. There was no strength of memory but more a self-agreement to be open from the strum.
Posted on: Thu, 08 Aug 2013 14:11:18 +0000
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