Heart Stopper

She rubs her knuckles along the ridges of mine, down by our thighs where no one can see- she brushes by too close, looks away just enough, but wafts her scent into my space. How can any gesture made be more erotic than that? The acknowledgment- I want you. She was always very successful in seducing me.

It’s been too long since the gentle touch of hands, in any place other than my heart.

I’ve never thought that you could interpret emotion any where outside of the eyes, or a hurt moue in her soft, soft lips. The Girl has hurt nostrils, that flare slightly as she takes that breath (you know the one?) that she uses to sustain her bravery. To NOT cry, that is the hardest of tasks.

I remember that it was a soft exhale, that night, a silent laugh, that was the catalyst for my spinning, dizzy descent. It can’t be love, because I’ve been told before that I am incapable, but the word itself eludes me. Can you love a thing that tore you apart? Can you love it senselessly, knowing how completely it is wrong for you, knowing that it can’t be that person you imagined (knowing that you’re already that person for yourself, so why try and have a copy, a doppelganger? Opposites attract, they say, and in some ways that’s true).

Eye contact predicates a secret shared, to sustain that glance- a confirmation that, yes, I know what you’re thinking of, because I think it too- that moment is intoxicating.

When you repeat it after the fall, it is like a poison. Or drowning in air. No choice, none but to flail or die with dignity. Because either way you will die.

Look away, Girl, look away. There are other looks and loves and imperfect perfections- enough to fill a day, or a book, a lifetime or a history.

She has a linen that drapes her shoulders, and skin (my god, such skin) that glows with her fury. Not an anger, no, but a passion. For life, to fight.

I have never seen her cry. Yet she is the only girl to have ever have made me.

Then I wonder, in the suddenness of the ending, was it truly the right decision? A decision made in fear, of any, must be most skewed. And the way she lets her arm brush mine, even after months of isolation, and the way she hugs and the way that her voice softens, her eyes flinch, and yes, her nose flares. Are these the road maps of promise?

I want to kiss those knuckles that turned my head, lave them and grasp them and run them through my hair. I want to kiss those lips, that nose, her shoulders, neck… breasts.

I want to steal her away, seduce her back.

I want to steal the breath- that breath- that made me fall (in love?)

* * *

By Danielle K. Day


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