The lake changes, it expands, it contracts, it sounds
impossible but it’s true; the shimmering greens and blues mix, then lash, then
mix again, a tragic and beautiful piece of art.
I walked with him hand in hand, hot fingers tangled; every
little squeeze sends a jolt of fire through me.
Small fishing boats bobbing on the surface of the water, the
geese and the seagulls fussing and crying. But I don’t see, I want him to kiss
me.
We walk into a small wood, “what have you been thinking about
this week?” I ask him. “You” he says sweetly. He takes me into his arms. Time is
a strange thing, the kiss is hungry, feverish, and urgent. Was it a moment or forever
long? We were forever in the woods, the dark tall trees leaning in to see. I
stand on my toes, and he bends to reach me. His hot hands on my lower back take
my breath away. We come out of the woods changed, stumbling and blind.
At home I’m useless, unable to focus on anything, my mind in
a kind of stupor “him, him, him, I want him.” I try to quiet down my blood, I
wash my muddy sneakers, scrubbing them hard. I clean the fridge with deliberate
intensity, its coolness against my blazing chest, my hands mechanical in their movement,
I push my volcanic desire down, I feel the ease in which his fingers encircle my
waist, I burn.
