I've added another bedtime story to the collection on the sidebar: When. Enjoy.
In the darkness he laps me apart and coaxes me back, the long hands spanning my hips and unthreading my bones. I don't know how to describe these lost moments, even to him.
Even to myself.
Time is mutable; sometimes each grain of sand is an evaporating mote, sometimes a granite boulder. Lately my hourglass has been empty rather than full. I seem to rescue myself from steam-fogged mirrors more than I eat.
Hairline; etched eyebrows; panda eyes, a scuff of freckles and bowed mouth - then the spell is broken and I'm getting dressed. Again. Getting undressed is one of those evaporating-into-gone moments.
Knowing full well he'd have to break skin to do it, I asked him to thread the earring through my ear.
He struggled with himself; desire to please me, frustration with my disobedient flesh. And then anger, when he saw the blood trickling from my mouth and on his fingertips, and understood. Fury that I'd let him hurt me, or perhaps that I'd tricked him into it.
These small things we do to make ourselves the other.