I say her name at times and all that sparks is her face. A thought of her on the other side with a smile wide and dimples formed. Her eyes never fold but stay wide when she smiles then she giggles. She knows that I am staring and tries to act coy; that I may kill the drenching stare that cuts through her eyes.
I can’t help myself.
In a whisker, she turns her eyes to the wearing gypsum that’s blotted with dead residue of insects tramping on her roof as she sleeps.
You have to stop.
Why? I don’t know it’s just…
You can’t help that I’m starving and want to go down there.
I know you are. And … You will…
I let my appetite feed on other trophies with my tongue and hands searching until she signs and pants in relief. They don’t just search. The tongue restless for her every being takes charge from her lips down her to crowning pumpkins. The hand like those of a masseuse though dry can’t help but caress. A surge of hunger for me yet for her a restraint that burdens a woman for all the pleasures they carry yet so consequential.
I choose to breathe, focus on the here and now. At first all is silence. I can’t feel my body. My mind though a crack house has no self-restraint and wanders off to melodies of another little bird. She was a bird…
The grass was green with fallen autumn leaves swept off close to the bench we sat -in front- a tree still nursing its youth with arms spread wide with a heaviness of leaves as it cast its canopy. Her skin was all raw with a slight glistening glow of Vaseline giving me of a feel of her lactating youth. She was ripe and her words filled the air. First it was how she talked, then came how she dressed, and then it was her lips. Dark lips that felt like raspberries dried (funny how colour deludes in pretence). She never really understood my eyes. I would devour her striping aside touching her as she fancied in silence. She could feel every spasm of lush that sparked from my aura and never tell for she adored to be naked in my mind. She turns to me from the bore of silence asking
What are you thinking?
Who else do you see in this room apart from us!
My mind is conscious from the betrayal and I find myself in a muzzle on whether to admit my own demise. She hardly looks me in the eye admitting to my disinterest in words when all is a nebulous of craving.
You think too much.
So what is it that you do?
It’s not think… thinking is methodical and boring. What I do is closer to being lost in time.
I sit up with the bed screeching and pick up my trousers searching for a cigarette. somehow I know she will ask yet I let the thought pass.
You want to smoke?
Do you want to smoke?
I come back with a smile half-baked and with a goofy feel. I find her forgiving with a solitude acceptance as she nods in pretence.
Four days now on her bed just chilling. Love was more of a feeling for me yet for her an act. She wanted a captive, a keeper not just a lover yet I was a whirlwind in sought of a wild rendezvous.
I knew she was a mistake, though to her I couldn’t help confiding, listening until her well of insecurities ran dry- filling in incomplete sentences as she spoke- most of all stroking her locks. Dark and thick locks. I would talk to them at times when she was asleep. They were her golden jewel and the hasp that clang me to her love. I could tell how this proclivity came to be, though know it was too entrenched in my desire – I couldn’t help a girl passing with dreads. What is African about a woman if not the knots on her head?
My first puff isn’t elevating so I pull another swing from a deeper urge. I feel at ease with myself and somewhere hear a whisper of Nina Simone say ‘ I got life’. She loved Etana. She scours YouTube in search of that song… “You have to listen to this song,” she says softly and with ease.
I will love you even when you can’t
Love me the way I love you
Hmm-mmm, even when you think it’s over
I’ll be right there next to you
It sounded melodramatic with a force to love that spoke of unfaltering loyalty. Etana has a voice that beats at your heart but her words tended to stick rather than caress. They were no words for a lover. They were words for two of a kind whose bodies were attached as rock so that their hearts never wander. I loved it though felt amiss of poetry to feed my intricacies. How do I end this? This much is desolate. She, I pray, to one day awaken to rock whose heart she will never despair.