Sian Evans: Behind Closed Doors!

Outstretched arm, twisted wrist and flayed fingers, taut, postured and poised.

Quivering.

My lover hovering and then…then the…d-descent of plush pads on…on…

I arch.  I ache.  I am.

I’m an anarchist under attack.

Warm breath fluttering over my breast like a thousand dragonfly wings, beating and battering until my nipple is puckered and tight.  Torturous tantalising tongue.  Tell-tale trail of tyranny.

Totality.

I feel the act keenly.  I wish to reciprocate.  My time will come; our time is nigh.  The illuminated tunnel with the shadow of realisation visible, I yearn for it too much.  Change is imminent and now it is tangible. As close as the curve of your cheek to the palm of my hand and I reach out to stroke you.

Legs lip-locking and luxuriating in the life-pulse that leaps between my lover and me.  Limbs limp and languid, cast long in the late afternoon light.

Lithe movements, lithe love.

I am a limpet.  In this moment only.

You are the mirror image of me.  You are my mirror, an honest reflection.  Simple wooden frame or so you perceive yourself to be.  To me, for me, you are a gilt frame, gold, diamonds.  The frame is irrelevant though all I care about is the image I see. In the glass and the person figuratively holding the glass – you.

Lips meet, tongues clash, juices mix and the bond strengthens.  A meeting of more than just body parts, of blood-warmed flesh.  This was metaphysical, ethereal and nascent.

I say: Leave him.

You say: I can’t.

I question why.

You say: I’d be ostracised.

I look at you with eyebrows raised.  You try to distract me with a litany of kisses down my neck and over my shoulder.

I tell you that you are oppressed, that you are suppressed and that without action you will regress.

You laugh.  I don’t.

I say: Stay with me.

You reply: I can’t.  I have too much to lose.

I repeat and embellish: Stay with me, forever, like this.  Here.

With facetiousness you ask: What right here, in your arms, forever?

Being pedantic I respond: No, I’m not like your husband, I wouldn’t imprison you.

Ssshhh!

A finger placed on my lips, by you, without thought of how I would perceive your actions.  A signifier – all that I fight against displayed in your one, seemingly innocuous, action.

‘We’ do not exist ‘out there’.

I have bound myself to this bed.  A binding ritual between us is my delusion solely.  Blind by my own hand and made a fool by my blatant naivety.

Patriarchal society is fuelled not by man alone, but by his wife also.

What gain am I for you?  What sort of game am I the loser of?

We do not exist out there.  Secure in these four walls we are alive, we thrive, we dive into each other and glory in the want and the need and the very essence of our being.

I cannot give that up.  I have too much to lose.

I say: I can’t.

You say: Ssshhh.

You are the mirror image of me but change is coming.  I will not lie to myself, and you are not lying to me.  I do not seek affirmation of us from them.  I will not allow the fight to intrude upon our blissfulness.

I look upon you.

Irises of mauve, pupils dilate.  Ignition of lust as implacable love leads to ignoble acts.  Afternoon scene: Iridescent and illuminating.

Irreplaceable: us.

Rustle of sheets as I move against you; move around you and in you.  Running the gauntlet and gauging my resistance to imminent implosion.  Combustible consuming consummation.

We burn.

Hiatus.

Ascension.

black tree

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