Young Writers Society

The only thing that's managed to push through my four-month long guilt induced writers block. It's a lot different from my usual work, no ones insane for one thing. If you don't like the idea of two females together click the back button. Also, it's rated R for a reason.

Of Issues And Flowers

I don’t love her. Even as I trace my nimble fingers over her supple skin she knows that. It was always part of the deal. No questioning there. No strings. Her cherry lips capture mine. Empty hearts race and hands wander. Her hips, my left cheek. Her lips, my collarbone. Movements of greedy velvet.

Our hands find many places. Places they’ve known before and no doubt will again. I don’t love her – though no doubt I am her lover. Does that seem fair to you? Well, fair is slipping away as she loses her footing and drags me down with her. Down is better. Friction of bed sheets, softly engulfing, they join in our game. Lust game, no shame. Lust dance, whatever you call it. She knows the steps well, a dancer by trade. But I always have to look up to check, is this enough? Briefly my searching gaze frees itself from her body making contact with her face. Observing.

It’s not. It never is, but she’ll make do…

So I’ll grin and she’ll smirk. I’ll play my requiem for the evening, part linguist, part pianist. I can even play one-handed. A tongue twister for twisted tongues, magnificence at work. Is it me, is it her? Guess what: No matter.

Bent and out of place, limbs, fingers finding better places. A moan, single, solitary, resonating. The moan soon has a twin, softer and more desperate than its counter part - pleading with mine. Coercing it. Synchronizing with the music for their dance. The news floats from the radio, four men dead. But what gives? We’re alive - so alive, yet dead. Dancing in each other until the point our goal is reached.

The long foretold ecstasy.

Bliss.

She clings to me, all sweat and baby breath. Her hair smells like cinnamon, matching the colour of those silky threads. She smiles at me, a sad smile. I realize. Remember. Not our goal was reached. Mine alone. She wants me. I want her body. She wants me dear. I want the game, no matter if it fills her with shame… I mean she knows I still don’t love her, probably never will. Yet she comes around as she always does, she’s an addict and I am her drug, but what I want is lust. I sigh and wonder how long the death embrace will last this time. Pure wishes and hopeful thinking don’t mix with desire for too long you see. Sad when you think about it. Break off too late and someone always gets hurt. It’s all a mess really. Hmm…Thinking about it, better don’t mix them at all.

As my eyes lock with hers, see their pained desire – so much purer than mine – I reach the conclusion: Time is useless with actions in play.

Guilt starting to spread a veil over her face.

I see it.

Huff. It escapes my mouth. A huff, the tiniest fragment of a futile laugh. She shouldn’t feel guilt. Dear guilt is being the wrong girl’s bitch.

Hmm, might have thought I’m too busy being everyone’s bitch. Ah. She’s got it wrong. How could she not. Shame all over her face. No doubt hiding tiny traces of hate. - Not for me! – Nope. Hating herself for laying in this bed. Cursing her love. Cursing love – never me - just this futile emotion wasted on me.

Her lips start to tremble, eyes ablaze. Confusion and dust filling all the mazes in her head. Courage and words are what she seeks. Lost in herself, I don’t care to observe.

Finally lips part, meant to form words. An issue I’m eager to resolve.

Lips lock. Deadening us both. Yet she resists, feeble moans of protest escaping the compounds of our lips. Soon they cease as I get my wish:

My gentle touches luring her to sleep, skilled velvet fingers serving the moment, serving me, drifting her to sleep.

No talk.

As she lays there I regard her. Considering.

Stealth on my side I dress. The cold fabric of the clothes on the floor in opposition to the warm bed sheets, the warmth of her body.

It be as it be and fast I’m done.

I look at her, then my eyes search without thought to focus on a blank sheet. Soon they find a biro too. I consider writing her a note before I leave. A few seconds. Just a few seconds I spend pondering, then leave. No note.

She knows the rules of this game, the steps of our dance. Why would I change them? It’s what I want right?

No talk. No attachment. No love. Lust. Lust being all that rules us.

I will leave, she’ll be alone when she wakes up, letting herself out instead of waiting; she knows it’s what I want.

Doors close, steps are taken, monotone. Solitary.

Hmm. Guess now guilt’s found the right bitch…