Ordering a drink after a long day made to feel even longer because I’ve had to fight the rain to make it up the street, I’m watching as the guy across the bar drapes his arm around the girl he’s with and gives her a long deep kiss right on her pretty little mouth. Just seeing them making out in public is enough to turn my stomach but it’s not so much disdain I judge them with it might deep down be jealousy. How disorienting those beginners kisses are, dizzy with desire and lust, fascination, hunger, the numbing bliss of ignorance. As I swallow my whiskey I taste you on my tongue like a drug, feel you slide down my throat and torch my insides until I burn myself to the ground all for you. You who would lick me until my embers turned to ash, until I was nothing but air, breath, weightlessness, beyond. Those fingers of yours, how they teased and penetrated and bruised and penned your dark poetry all over my alabaster skin. Love and blades and ink and dreams of fields of wild flowers bending beside a turquoise sea. Love is a fog they say but it is also an electric current which cuts through right to the heart with lightning speed. Not for you and I, we were not love we were mouths, tongues, bodies, cravings. Or so we thought we could be, thought we could sever the feelings from the flesh, cut the heart out and leave it on the square patch of grass by the hotel we rented too late and left before the early morning light could reveal to us the staleness of our sinful ways. Maybe none of us are quite sure what love is. Maybe it’s just another tired place where right is wrong and wrong is right and everything turns inside out on a dime. The guy at the bar and his doe eyed girl drown in their last sips of cheap happy hour beer and stumble out the doorway, lips still locked as they giggle and trip beneath the rain blurred neon lights. I miss a time when you could smoke in bars but I suppose it’s all for the best we’re no longer permitted. A dirty habit in a filthy world. I’m more careful now. Not to confuse who’s in control with who’s in power. Not to build castles out of sand or wish upon a shooting star, spinning and falling and dying so beautifully inside a black hole sky.
Allison Marie Conway 
Castles are built with foundation stones layed deep in the ground to support the weight of vastness of the stories it will contain when the Parapets and Towers are in place , and the roof tiles disperse the rain , as well as arrows ,…..the small windows giving the illusion of safety , just enough to feel secure in the thought that anything is possible……
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A very lovely thought and description. 🙂
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I can picture those days. Remember them even. When we rose form the abyss of the most forgotten of dive bars. Smoke billowing from our nostrils. Fire on our breath. Bodies ignited. Smashing through the masses. Chasing freedom. Surrendering to the lust. Fading as the night got old. Woke up in places unfamiliar. Love nowhere in sight. Counting seconds for the daylight to be gone so we can again start hunting that perpetual myth that we call lasting love…
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You said it and said it well. Little whirling storms of sex and death were we. Sometimes absolutely dazzling though, there was a gleam in the mess, a glimmer in the dirt. Or so I suppose. 🙂
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Hah. Definitely something dazzling and alluring. Even in aftermath. Fits those of us that are wild at heart… sometimes that is good, other times bad, and of course at times ugly beyond. 😉
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Oh yes, wild at heart. We are our own demise. Bad makes such good art, and yet… the ugly… trouble, the lot of it. 😉
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True. Plus without the ugly how would we value the beautiful… 😊
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A very fair question indeed.
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😉😊
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☺️
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Hi Alli, nice to be here after a long while. Fingers penning dark poetry over alabaster skins make for great sculpture of both animate and inanimate kind. May the raw material of events, people and places continue to spur your creativity. Best…
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Thank you so very kindly Raj. I’m so glad this piece spoke to you so deeply.
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