EXECUTION
The room was an igloo compared to the warmth of the bed. I shivered as I slid beneath the covers, back into the cocoon of where his body had just been, hoping to be enveloped by his warmth. Knowing that eventually, it would become my own.
Soon I was lying on a moist-cool-warm pillow. I could still feel the weight of his fingers and hands as only hours before he inexpertly but effectively kneaded much of the tension from my shoulders, neck and back. His hands were like mittens, their impression left in my muscles the way footprints are made in sand.
He had been kind enough not to press me about the “naked” prerequisite, but I had obliged anyway as I deftly pulled my black tank over my head, revealing a part of myself to him. Knowing that I could only get what I needed this way.
“So what do you want to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I breathed in reply.
“You have to know,” he says. I could see a faint trace of exasperation in his eyes as we lay in the semi-darkness. “You have to have some kind of plan.”
Nearly everything he'd said I’d already sorted through in my own mind sitting with my thoughts, but these were the things I hadn’t dared utter aloud. Even though we are in different places in many ways, in numerous others we are inexplicably close. I know that in our hearts we want a lot of the same things. Yet, he’d managed to say them. He’s definitely the more mature one.
The apartment was cold and shadowy. Walking him to the door seemed to take hours. It was like two condemned prisoners being led to the execution chamber, our relationship soon to be demised. He gripped my hands as though clinging to a last bit of life, as if to comfort and, yet, struggle to be comforted until we both had to let go. My mind drifted back to only moments before. I could have lain there forever, my legs entangled in his.
Why does loving someone always seem to involve some form of torture?
© Copyright 2005 by Issiata
Soon I was lying on a moist-cool-warm pillow. I could still feel the weight of his fingers and hands as only hours before he inexpertly but effectively kneaded much of the tension from my shoulders, neck and back. His hands were like mittens, their impression left in my muscles the way footprints are made in sand.
He had been kind enough not to press me about the “naked” prerequisite, but I had obliged anyway as I deftly pulled my black tank over my head, revealing a part of myself to him. Knowing that I could only get what I needed this way.
“So what do you want to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I breathed in reply.
“You have to know,” he says. I could see a faint trace of exasperation in his eyes as we lay in the semi-darkness. “You have to have some kind of plan.”
Nearly everything he'd said I’d already sorted through in my own mind sitting with my thoughts, but these were the things I hadn’t dared utter aloud. Even though we are in different places in many ways, in numerous others we are inexplicably close. I know that in our hearts we want a lot of the same things. Yet, he’d managed to say them. He’s definitely the more mature one.
The apartment was cold and shadowy. Walking him to the door seemed to take hours. It was like two condemned prisoners being led to the execution chamber, our relationship soon to be demised. He gripped my hands as though clinging to a last bit of life, as if to comfort and, yet, struggle to be comforted until we both had to let go. My mind drifted back to only moments before. I could have lain there forever, my legs entangled in his.
Why does loving someone always seem to involve some form of torture?
© Copyright 2005 by Issiata
posted by Issiata | 1:43 PM
2 Comments:
I hear you girl....
Everyone seems to be in some kind of mood this week. What gives?
As far as your question, love is pain, pain is love. It's just something we have to deal with.
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