the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
(smitten by) a parting touch of lips (unfolding into another day)
When we realize something is precious, knowing that she is fleeting makes her all the more beautiful.
It was one of those times—everything would trigger a memory, pangs would suddenly pound and echo inward, light would play upon dark and I would see her in the shadows. Only a few hours later I swell with energy, a serene whisper warning me to "think away." I was sure I would spend the next two days sighing, denying "anything is possible," reminding myself "think away, think away," but away I could not, for I was caught in the tunnel—stuck, watching myself smile while kissing, reminiscing and in awe. Breath. Breath again.
Synchronized breathing was making me whole, happy, feeling anew. The breeze continued to bring wafts of pleasure through the trees, the silence, the swaths of exposed skin that enveloped me inside her and tied us together with loose ropes of hope and desire and sin.
I had to wonder and pine. And spurred into desperate measure, I willed fate to fall in line with the sticky residue of punch-drunk cactus dew and the alluring act of sucking the same mango pit, which left strings of fruit behind which I yearned to draw from her teeth with a kiss. She moved me and I wanted to do anything that was different with her, droll, daring, or taboo, if only to make this moment something other than conventional.
As so few people are as willing to be alert, to listen, to feel, to peel and then bravely consume prickly crimson flesh that provokes fire; to get undressed in public to pee in the ivy without a second thought to propriety; to give and by giving understand why she should be just as willing to unconditionally receive; to impart with drunken honesty the longing to grow apart and unlike all the others; to love and fight and to learn to love again; to linger and not want to know when to let go—to know there is a lesson never learned in the lingering; to realize affection lies somewhere in between compassion and lust; to trust in the future with a design etched by mutual pangs of hunger in the present; to relent, to let go, to not think about the narrow and the inevitable; to revel with all my senses and a hesitant heart—to abruptly end a brilliant start which with a parting touch of lips one hopes promises to unfold into another day—
is all to say that it is no surprise that I am smitten.
the art of living the list