DEIMOS
These were not the songs of sadness or despondency, these were not the tidal waves of broken, dispirited things. Misery had no place here, not in the scintillating sketches of gasps and moans, not in the graceful, wanton arches of backs and spines, not in the declarations, the begging, the pleading, the rapture and reverie. Within and along this threshold, they were coiled, contorted things, horizons and halcyon sparks, drawn within the moments of interludes and sanctuaries, havens and refuges in one another, instead of the darker presses of the world beyond windows and responsibilities. A respite, a repose, desires instead of depravities, sedition instead of woe, release instead of distortions and entanglements. The only thing gnarled seemed to be her hands clutching at blankets, a sizzling chuckle from his throat following her movements, her motions, pressing teeth and tongue again at sensitive skin, a molten touch, a blinding inferno, intending to send her over the edge. He wanted her descending, reeling, delighting, echoing and bounding; free to scream away the torment and agonies of their constant bombardments and upheavals, permitted to climb in ecstasy, to plummet in pleasure. Yours and yours and yours was the embodiment and inherent measures, obliging, giving, taking, encouraging the sun’s rays to dazzle, to spark, to incense over walls and canvases, an outcry, a shuddering, a trembling benediction curved, then unraveled, by their nerves, by their inclinations, by their needs, by their ardent crusades.At her murmurs and howls, feverish, singsong measures into the ether, he had half a mind to continue his taunting, his teasing, playing her out, plucking each and every string until her tunes were ravished and glorified. She must’ve been close, the signs in her gasps, in her grasps, in the rise of her hips and the salt on her flesh; she shook, and he encouraged her to bask, to fall apart, rendered boneless in his grasp.
But her hands were pleading, entreating; he followed their motions on an unwinding, almost serpentine, sinuous dedication, meandering on the depictions he’d scorched before. His head dropped and mouth scalded on her navel, tongue dipping, teeth snatching, fingers splayed on her ribs, as he worshipped, as he exalted, venerated, and honored. Her figure was the earth, the moon, and the stars, and he climbed and climbed until he’d thought to spin and dedicate his mouth to every one of the constellations and galaxies: her breasts, her shoulders, her nape, before rising, rising, rising, hovering over her form, her name a searing, simmering refrain on his lips. Only thereafter did one of his hands emit their familiar gilded glow, creating the customary sheath, sliding it upon himself; before his mouth found hers again, a gasp, a groan, bounding and billowing upon skin as he coordinated their connection.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
