I stand on the porch watching the roiling, dark sky while the growling wind licks at my cheek and medusa strands of vanilla scented hair wrap snake-like around my throat, snapping and writhing in the gloaming night. Clouds scud across the seething darkness, lit from beneath and spilling a diffused light refracted from a crouching moon which hides behind the restless wind and vainly strains to lick softness into the raging expanse of sky.
Fat Cat wends around my legs sinuously, his purr audible even over the grumbling of wind and slash of cold, stinging snow, his small, warm plumpness a comfort. I stand coatless on this frigid January morning, a thin cotton shirt moulding to me as I clutch the warmth of fragrant coffee and breathe deep the scent of awareness. The wind growls and pulls at me, I hear the rustling whispering of branches and gazing out on the street, watch a kaleidoscope of images reflect and refract in the mirrored frozen pools of ice.
I remember him, tart on my tongue, tasting of night and sleep and arousal, a familiar bouquet of spurious comfort, a pervasive normalness in the chaos of a life derailed and without direction. I sip and the hot spill of coffee across my tongue mingles with his recalled taste and I close my eyes and allow images to chase and trickle through consciousness, of the painful tenderness of skin stretched delicate over the throbbing muscle of his want and the sharp, sweet pulling and he, cupped gently in my hands, my finger trailing between taut thighs to tenderly caress the highway of vein and tendon trailing into groin.
Ritual. So crucial to a sense of purpose and meaning. Ritual. A sacrament of repetitive actions and reactions. Ritual. Convention, tradition, routine – often reviled as plebeian movements of uninspired drones yet with a comfort in the rites whose practice is a muscle memory of habitual movement. Ritual. A sacramental worshipping of routine which can soothe and whisper false promises into ears willing to lie.
And despite the broken trail of promises and the sharp, toxic imprecations of regret, my morning ablutions continued for a very long time; my worship at his groin a source of comfort, a confirmation of want and need and a pervasive, needful sense of comfort in the familiar taste and smell.
I shiver in the gloaming darkness of the early morning, and feel the sting of frost against tender skin. I hear the dogs moaning on the other side of my bleak thoughts and relish the razor slash of reality against my tender face as the wind petulantly slashes now into my consciousness. Strands of crimson tangle in my mouth and Fat Cat mews and demands to be let into the warmth of the house behind me. Grey thoughts shiver through my body, a sharp contrast to the warm yellow light spilling through the glazed window of the door, its golden flowing stream bleaching to paleness and then disappearing into the cacophony of wind and snow and dark.
Time, inexorable and implacable, sounds sonorously and obedient to ritual, I turn and enter the house, the windswept reality of road to be travelled as work beckons and I, obedient, follow the path of dissolution and defeat.
and miss, poignantly, terribly, my morning devotional.