She lay next to you, awake, staring out of the window, praying she’d see a falling star.
Why is it called ‘making love’? Doesn’t there have to be love to get here in the first place or have we been so hurt by the emotion that we’ve managed to remove it from the equation all together?
You told her she was sexy and asked for the lights to stay on. ‘I like the expressions you make’ you smirked. These expressions are your reward, you’re doing this to her. Your feet touched, they were cold, she was nervous but she still wanted you. What’s sexier than her wanting? When you caught her arm, she grew tense. Her tenseness made a man out of you. So you held her hands and pinned them against the bed, you could tell she was enjoying this. Her chest was rising and falling, her breathing is writing you a thank you note. Your hands brushed against her stomach, it had goosebumps. Don’t you love it when you can give her goosebumps? As if each one felt the heat of this moment. You’d asked her to get on top and when she did, your nails clawed at her back, if it isn’t rough, it isn’t fun. You bit her lip, gave her three bruises and made her scream. A goodnight later, you turned your back and went to sleep a happy man.
You told her she was sexy, she searched in your words for ‘beautiful.’ She liked that the lights were on, when she looked in your eyes, there was your story. She wanted to be in bed with your story. Your feet were warm, where have they been? How have of the places you’ve been to changed you? Was the floor of the bedroom you grew up in this warm? When she caught your arm, she made a mental list of all the women that have been there before, her kisses were prayers to be the last. When your heartbeat fastened, she knew you were enjoying this. But could this please not be the only thing about her that would excite you? How many times has this heart been smashed and put together?
Your chest was rising and falling in anticipation but does it also rise and fall when you sigh? In her mind, a poem was being written on the sight of you sighing. How you looked your strongest when you stood venerable and defeated. When she held your hand, she traveled time. She sat, wrinkles and walking sticks, in the garden of her house laughing to a man who was holding her hand. She high-fived him, ‘we got here’ he said ‘I promised you we would.’ What’s sexier than an unbroken promise? Your hands brushed against her stomach, she got goosebumps. Each of them is something she never could digest. Her mother was cheater. Her sister’s depression. Her constant self-doubt. Each goose bump popping as if desperate for you to hear. She asked you to get on top and clawed at your back, she was clawing out the stab wounds, taking away memories of everyone that has ever hurt you. Every person you were forced to turn your back on. Your best friend in the fifth grade. The pretty girl who broke you heart and finally, yourself. She bit your lip, from here on, she hoped to worship your words. You will say things that you never thought would leave the loneliness of your mind. But three bruises and a scream later you said goodnight, turned your back and went to sleep.
In the silence of the night, you dreamt of her body. But right next to you she lay awake, staring out of the window, praying she’d see a falling star. That way she wouldn’t have to feel so lonely falling.
In the sky or in love, do the details mater?
(Illustration: Daniel Horowitz)
Almost Like the Blues. 