She was sensual, the Girl, swaying slowly to the base, a tambourine on acid fleetingly beating behind the edge of hearing. She was suspended. Her thoughts fast, incomplete, spinning crystals holding precariously around her writhing limbs, her wrists and ankles and throat. It was an intervention, supposed to be an intervention, I’d planned it and parred it down to a quick, swift brush of my knuckles to her aura, or to a butterfly kiss on her glowing hair. She would never have noticed. Her eyes, closed, flutter with her thud thud thudding heart, her breath and body like incense, transparent hint of solidity lost behind the haze of fleeting scent. But I would have remembered the heat of her, the ember glowing within the heart of her, burning. I would have remembered the brush of tangled strands to my blazing skin, the soothing of my consumption for the not-quite-second I had her, all of her, just for me. I would have remembered it, forever, if I’d been able to steal a taste of lips and hips and collar. Not so, not now. Maybe never.

Poetry doesn’t die. Art doesn’t hide. It must be seen, sought, found, held, consumed- like I would have her, under my mouth and tongue, fingers and palms and toes if the rest don’t suffice. I taste her scent, my mouth open to inhale that heady rush of femininity into my soul. A flame flickers by her whiplash twist, a light kindles in the flair of hair haloed around her cream neck, her throbbing veins of dark blue in the shadowed hollow of skin. Lust, perhaps, would baptise me upon her. What a strange moment, this, that rules my heart to bring a light into my breast. I would love her, for the second that our souls touched, before the heat of me and the heat of her cremate us for the final rights. I would love her, if she would have me.

Lashes- sweeps upon cheekbones and glinting in the fluorescent red of lights, dark and moist pupils revealed slowly as she looks, hauntingly, out from her orbit. She is a star, my sun, my beacon. A second, that is all. A not-quite-second, not-quite-moment, for her eyes to brush mine, her lips to back, smile, whisper, her wrist and finger to lift, to gesture, to communicate her longing, desire, invite. Who is suspended, now? Who caught by inactivity? I bend under her desert heat, a wind tearing this fire sprite, this mirage, into imagination and uncertainty. She breathes, her shoulders, breasts, stomach twitching against the invasion of air, her voice a rush by mine, reaches out, catches me-

And then we spin, fluid heat against fleeting burning, her rush against mine. My breasts to her breasts, heaving. My thighs to her thighs, straining against the wait of momentousness, my lips to her lips and my palm to her palm, her fingers and nail and knuckles and wrists. Ignited on her, a life short lived, to be born and to die before more than a kiss-

And then she spins, turns, away into the yellow lights. I am left, a girl of ash, my whole disintegrating in her wake. But I loved her, for the second- or not-quite- that we merged. I loved her, and it was enough, to recall the smoky scent and sun and hair, to hear on the wind a beat, like a distant tambourine. Enough, to be reborn.

* * *

by Danielle K. Day


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