Neon Blue, dark room, hypnotic, swirling figures, soft, loose, playing in his mind, or is it just the fading gleam of impossible light falling out of his eyes? He loses himself in the blur, the crack on the wall, the silent space between his thoughts and the spoken words which escape his mouth. She kisses him violently. He observes her well, because she will not pass his way again. They never do, and he reasons that it’s better not to know why. There is so much knowledge in this world, and yet too little is understood. The woman behind the painted face must be deeply wounded to need him so much in the saliva sea of desire, where tongues tease and wrestle to gain advantage like an apocalyptic gender war. If she were not so aesthetically pleasing to his primordial senses, he would not have embraced her cavalier and unorthodox approach to an introduction. Still he wonders what could have tormented her to the point of surrender, as she collapsed her arms onto his broad shoulders to bear the burden of a slender body of secrets, revealed only in the language of faint gestures which escaped her countenance subconsciously. At the very least she would pause for breath, but not while he breathes new hope and life into her womb. She is kissing him but he is not kissing her. Swirling, turning, spinning inside out, head upside down, she wants to believe in him. She needs to believe that her kiss means more than what it really is. In her desperation she fails to accept that a kiss is not the truth, but merely what one would wish to be true. He is holding her firmly; hands wrapped tightly around her waist. His fingers will soon be nervously tracing the curve of her backside. He didn’t plan on getting turned on this early in the night, but he cannot deny her what he thinks she wants. He is still too fresh and needs to be intoxicated, so that he can steady himself and get a grip on his manhood. She has already stolen his mind, he won’t make it if the shaking doesn’t stop. They share another sharp intake of breath before continuing their ice dance like faceless shadows clothed in their earnest pretence. His calloused heart is caught up in the web of the fantasy at play, cowardly trying to resist the flames of passion, but spurred on by the fatal flaw in every man. Creeping down the lower levels of his esteem, he fears he is not a Man. Of all the strangers that dance in the neon blue light of dark rooms, why was he chosen? What does she see in him? And why is it so clearly the first and last time that they will ever hold each other this way? They cannot see what they are doing, and they do not really believe in the moment they are creating. But on the surface there is something more beautiful about the black lie they are living, which transcends the fears and insecurities that men and women impose on each other. It lives in the ignorance that cocoons them from the pain of uncompromising and irrepressible truth, and the myth of a merciless, timeless King.
-
Follow
Following
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
Napoleon Dozier's Dabbler's Hand 