It was like hellfire painted in cold orange juice hues, drizzling down the back of my throat. It was like that griddle black iron hiss that is only fire finding flesh, the scent of burnt blood so sweetly near your breath. Those artless feelings that can only be told as heat. That last sacramental miracle, the body turned to meat. The way I felt you, leaving like a song.
The music so far at last, every single light seems a new horizon. SInging being breathing and breathing being so soft and slow. Your name always that leaving tingling, drifting slowly from my dry lips. Your name some dark evocation of want and glorious waste. Time always gathering down your ankles as the world washes through your hair. This song destiny, always almost lost.
You sang so sweet, sugared sand in my dreams. You drawled and intoned and upended all the furnishings words could afford. Even the drift of your singing, like heard from around a corner, draws closer to my fingers. Your throat purring warmth through my hands. Knowing that there is no cold you could not thaw, just with a word. One song spilling slowing, leaving your kiss.
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