Time trickles away in a stream of granular want that appals with the rapidity of its disappearing promise. I want to reach and stop the fading away of hope and maybes but the implacable reality of concrete nots entangles me in questions and confusion until I blink and waken as if from a dream (nightmare?) and see the reflection of someone else in the image in the window.
In the distance, mist shrouds the city’s spine, softening soaring linear realities of glass and steel, licking gentleness into the wavering panorama of fortitude and want. The street below streams a black concrete river of motion bearing the hurrying crowd of wannabe stroke victims on its sinuous path of destruction.
Hazy and insubstantial, my reflection wavers uncertainly in the morning wash of fire and light. The lake breathes indigo in the distance, then gathers and explodes into the orb of light which struggles to escape from its embrace. Light and dark, fire and the cool breath of deep water clash and in the agony of birth, the morning is born …
I feel a suppressed violence inside the confines of flesh and body and a restlessness which nibbles at my iron reserve to stay within the stillness of self-restraint. Vibrating, I yearn toward the river of sky and marvel as light chases dark into the realm of another world and lays claim, in an inferno of liquid gold and deep crimson, to mine.
The intensity calls to me, that deep, secret part of me, the violence arousing, piquant and delicious. I yearn toward that angry sky and feel my breasts swell, the pale tips blushing pink then crimson. Between my thighs, I feel a throbbing, a warm, wet wanting and sigh.
How many years have I felt that throbbing need? That pulsing, damp want that clouds my mind and reaches into the atavistic part of my id to curl demanding fingers into my soul and incite in me an elemental lust. I feel a thing of dripping swollen flesh and warm wet folds which swell and dampen and call to the need between my thighs for stiff want and the battering harshness of being taken.
Not for me softness or sweetness and the soft, butterfly hovering kiss of tentative questioning pleading. I want hands tangled in crimson curls, tugging at the roots and inciting me into thrashing rage and lust and hot need. I want to feel teeth fasten on my shoulder, the hot, wet battering realness of personified demand thrusting harshly into the swollen softness and clinging hotness of my reality. I want to be breached, taken, conquered, no quarter given, no surrender possible.
I am not a soft creature but one borne from warriors and berserkers, from a people created of passion and anger and explosive emotional angst. And time has not softened the intensity.
I wonder and wait as time erodes the planes and curves of my body, as it etches experience into smoothness of flesh while gravity exerts its implacable pull. I rail at the reality of the erosion of youth and descry the inevitability of its destruction …yet, yet, as I look out from eyes still green as spring, I feel inside the hot, molten need rise again and again …and each month brings with it the promise of life and each morning when I take him in my mouth and feel the throbbing salty reality of his demand, I feel the hot throbbing want and am young again …
Slowly, in the east the angry crimson of the sun lightens then turns amber then a sheer golden radiance of hope. Night flees and thunders on dark hooves to the west and the restless lake’s whispering navy voice reflects back the cerulean blue of a dawning sky …