Ghosts in Winter

My mouth on yours, like an open wound.
My hands on your face,
My hair falling softly against your skin.
Your cock was hard against my hip as our legs tangled together with our whispered words. Words like want, and hungry, and desperate needful love.
“Just touch me … don’t fuck me,” I said to you. “Let me feel the sinew in your flesh,” and your hands slipped into the small of my back. You wanted to feel my lust, your own lust, like you always did, but “I don’t want to feel my lust right now … I just want to feel you.” My hands like the feel of you … the gentle arc of your abdomen and the tight little snarl of pubic hair you keep trimmed just for me. I touch your hipbone ever so slightly with the back of my hand and take your bottom lip into my mouth…
“Don’t look at me,” while I adore the you that is your flesh. “It makes me feel starving and weak.” You laugh at me, and I apologize for waxing poetic because it’s a different kind of hunger that consumes me today. A hunger I’d forgotten to appreciate along with the miles of distance in your flesh that I had always overlooked in my haste.
I want to know that distance.
I want to know the way you breathe, the way you die just a little when you sleep, and the way your hair falls against your forehead when you rise up in ecstasy above me. I want to know what your heart and your liver and your kidneys taste like fresh and warm while your heart is still pumping, and I want to know what the palms of your hands feel like against my cheek when they are slick with your blood and bile. I want you to put your fingers in my mouth. I want to taste you on them, knowing that you were thinking of me when you took the blade and caressed yourself into oblivion.
It’s not your cock I want today or your desperate needful love. The want is deeper today, darker, like the copper smell on your breath when you lie to me like you mean no harm when you say the word “fuck.”
You say I make you feel wicked. You ARE, wicked, when you worship the flesh of a whore. Your hands on my throat when you say it: “Whore,” and then you make me believe it long enough to deny it. You want me to deny it, to deny you, to pretend I could survive YOU long enough to drain you from my veins. But I can’t…
Deny you.
Deny what I am.
“Don’t fuck me,” I say again softly into your ear as I wrap my legs around your trembling waist. I just want to press myself into you, until there is nothing left, like the white bones of a ghost, lost and longing, lamenting the transparency of its own flesh.

By Cheryl Anne Gardner

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