Short Story / White Lillies
I.
And here I am, again, sixty days after that first Valentine's.
This second time, though, I'm left breathless.
II.
Spent the morning white and open, skin blooming like cherry-blossoms, bright and drifting in your spring bed. Awake, and asleep again.
Last night.
We breathed white, white snow as you offered me the web between your finger and thumb under the dark lights and treble hum. Left my mind quietly aside and danced slow like my limbs were no longer mine. Dropped into the wet rain dreamlight.
Soon, startled out of subconsciousness, pulling my hand from the fabric on your leg and all instinct kicking in. I would have pulled back his hair if it hadn't been a mohawk, removed his hat and were gently removed from the club. Curbside, you thanked me for taking to task a job you usually fill: time to bring the ill-one home, and I was afraid I was the soberest of the three, so I sat in the cab.
Beneath the Williamsburg bridge, taxis speeding like slick bumblebees, the cool April rain coming in through the windows. I was still uncertain, still am uncertain, but I let my pulse guide more, let the dreamtime still lingering in my brain set my muscles into motion. Your eyes were wet and bright, too, face closer than casual to my own, close enough to make me think about your lips more than your words. Still, splaying your knowledge all over my lap, a girl can't help but get wet from your intellect, or maybe it's just me. Our thighs kept touching and I couldn't tell if it was by accident.
And more ketamine, from the mirror in your loft. I let my body drift closer and we just talked until the cold caught on and it must have been four or five in the morning and our eyes kept striking, like flint, making sparks.
You finally said: "Do you want to sleep in my room?"
III.
For a million minutes (in my mind), I sat on the edge of your bed waiting to fit myself in. And then your hands pulled my body in, legs over mine, there were words at first for awhile and then.
And then my hands on the soft flesh of your neck, and lips upon lips and then I'm lost again. I wasn't expecting this. There's none of the urgency of last time, but a liquid languid pace, discovering the white of your teeth, the heat of your breath.
I was a sculptor, for that moment, chiseling the smooth marble-white hollows of your body, burning breath into a creation. And here, in the dark, I held my breath.
You paused at some point, nearing ecdysis, face above mine and you stopped completely. Held my face in your hands like some strange lily and pressed your lips to my forehead like a blessing. And then fevered, to my mouth. I felt pure, soft, holy, whole.
Your room, a cocoon, for our bodies, a metamorphosis where I am exploding outwards. Where I am damp and trembling green, suddenly, accidentally teneral.
And then, all is silent, and then you make me laugh.
IV.
There are so many hours from there to here, unnumbered except by the cool-blue projection of your clock on the ceiling, speaking to us in numbers.
An hour slept, while you ordered breakfast. And then another at eight in the morning, where we crawl back into bed. Arms upon arms, bones nested like pale eggs, your hand curved between my breasts to finally sleep deep.
Hours pass, and you haven't moved, and we wake only to brush limbs and spend four hours speaking about everything, tucked in the dark. I let my hands travel under your shirt and wander the contours of your skin, and you ignore phone calls. "It feels nice, being touched." I know. Your pulse short-circuits your breath.
We keep crawling back into bed, despite obligations calling, just to curl up and pull out the tenor of another's words.
V.
And yet, I am soft and pale, still, shivering from the hours.
Because you, you are on your way to a few thousand miles away.
And I know, I might not have a fight against her.
But there is a strange truth in your motions that has let lie something else, I saw possibility there.
I felt it as you left, as my hand brushed your face and you lingered too long and.
VI.
And, there is no end to this set, yet.
Here I am, damp (and damned).
And blooming.
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Reviews
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
I loved reading this, it’s written in a beautiful, dreamy, lilting prose which got its hooks into me. Your descriptions are spare yet vivid, very very very very nice
pulling my hand from the fabric on your leg and all instinct kicking in. I would have pulled back his hair if it hadn’t been a mohawk, removed his hat and were gently removed from the club --- this is a bit confusing, who is he? are the ‘you’ and the ‘he’ the same person?
And then, all is silent, and then you make me laugh. --- perhaps make this 2 sentences
where we crawl back into bed --- when?
An hour slept --- maybe you meant ‘slept an hour’, however, if you didn’t I really like the idea of time sleeping rather than the other way around, very poetic image
I also love the fact you taught me 2 new words – ecdysis and teneral – merci beaucoup!
by the way the plural of ‘lily’ is ‘lilies’, one ‘l’
nothing more to say really, a quality melding of poetry and prose, spell-binding and poignant
keep writing
take care
- add/view comments (0)
Showing 1 - 1 of 1
Review item
Add to faves
GENERAL
REVIEW QUEUE
Ratings & Rankings
