Tuesday, May 19, 2009

ghosts

sleep for days, originally uploaded by claire sloan.

One minute, you’re fine. You’re thinking about the coloring of the last photo you took. You’re thinking of a minute little task you have to finish tomorrow. You’re thinking about the weather, and what you’ll wear. You’re thinking of nothing in particular, then it hits you. Suddenly and without mercy, it hits you.

Then you can’t think of anything else. You can only think of him. And the emptiness hits you like a hurricane. Then the longing stretches his arms around you and squeezes, tight, so tight, wrapped around your heart, your chest, until you can’t take a breath without his breath. You’re thinking of the exact shade of his eyes. You’re thinking of his smile, the slight upturn of his lips, the shape imprinted upon yours, an invisible stamp cloned on, you’re thinking of the slightest raise of his eyebrow, a skilled puppeteer manuvering it just the smallest angle upward, expressing so much.

And oh how it hits you, and you nearly cry out. You would trade anything in the world right now for his touch. His skin pressed upon yours, your head nestled against his shoulder, his hair entwined in your fingers, your tongues dancing. Anything.

But instead: the memory pressed upon you like a ghost, whispering silky moments, conversations, fingers tracing shapes against your curves and crevices, voices in your head. Just that. An image, a dream, a figment of your imagination. A memory. And instead in your hands there is time, there are conflicts that need resolving, lists to be crossed off, alarms to be set and conquered and forgotten.

In the meantime, a slip of not careful fingers, pain, real and physical, spice sprinkled into your flesh and you look down, and there in the shape of three neat bloody cuts, his kiss upon your skin.

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