DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Maybe their songs were wildfire and ice: infernos, heated, uncontrollable desire, an ardor, a passion, sung on the fervency of their connections, molten skin and avaricious hearts, taking and taking because they were afraid it’d be lost, because time had been cruel and that was all they knew. Maybe the glacial games were part of the tease, the taunting, the tempering, steel and forge and iron strengthening, solidifying who they were, what they represented when they came together: emboldened, audacious, simmering, smoldering, scintillating beings. Moved by one another, the notes never quite perfect, their flaws apparent, alterations in pitches and tones each time, yet always along the same reverberations: awe, love, devotion, comfort, wanton and heady aspirations, confidence, sanctuaries, and shelter. He’d never told her how she was a sanctum to his entire being, his dark, nefarious soul, the only shrine he’d ever pay any reverential homage to – but tried to convey it with his actions, with his maneuvers, with his seditious worship, the strings of savage hymns. He preened under her gaze, his stare kindled with smoke and fumes, raking over her figure again as she bit her lip, as they both tormented, standing stock still because he knew it would rankle and tease. But Amalia wasn’t about to forfeit any opportunities either; there were no stoic inclinations in his eyes as her fingers slid at the tie along her chest, slowly, baiting, goading, falling away (barely), pushed down along shoulders until it was on the floor with its brethren. The depths, the fathoms, of his lustful being followed the lines with only the motion of his silence, his hushed, stolen breaths, memorizing the outlines his teeth, his mouth, his lips, his hands, his fingers, had already encountered, an embodiment of paths he’d gladly traverse again – a salacious exhibition of his impulses, inclinations, and craving. But neither of them bend, neither of them fall apart, neither of them announce who had won or what they were fighting for – all an act, all a ruse, because eventually they’d both succumb, and it was neither a loss or a conquest.
Take me they both croon and whisper behind the roars of the water.
The mountain was control and composure, following their patterns, immobile except for the movement of his hands as they linger down the length of his tunic, fingers grabbing hold of the fabric, reaching down at the bottom and unhurriedly peeling it away from his flesh. The skin and muscles below were not a new divulgence, she’d had them before and she’d have them again, but leisurely revealed: abdomen and chest, shoulders and arms, exposed in their undulating, unleashed roll of flesh and bone, brawn and vitality and scars riddling their existence. The shirt goes somewhere, tossed aside, and then he maneuvered, another tease, another bout of silent, unsung laughter, as he only reached for the faucet to shut off the running liquid; not racing towards her, not grabbing hold of her and tearing off the only garments remaining – only lifting his gaze, hand extended towards the bath; an invitation.
Unite and spread the heart apart
