Secret spells

There is some kind of secret spell to the touch of your hand. Every time that bunch of flesh and bones and roaring hot blood lingers on the surface of my skin ir feels as if you were squeezing my soul. It’s obscene, even, the way I shiver when you touch me. 

The ghost of that sudden and soft chin-grabbing you did when our friendship was still blossoming haunts me every night. I remember every fleeting bump of our hand as we walk side by side, so close that I can feel my skin getting hotter by the warmth of yours. 

But I don’t remember your hands splaying on my back as we embrace. I don’t know about the nimble dance of your fingers through my wild curls. I can’t remember how your long fingers crush in the tender flesh of my quivering thighs or the feathery touch of your fingertips as they trace the outlines of my lips. I don’t know how your fingers feel stuck between my own. I don’t know the patterns on the palms of your hands. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

photo credit: "The Clay and the Potter" By Aitor Frias & Cecilia Jimenez

Grey Skies

It feels nice, waking up to a tender noise silencing the world, shoving the ruse of your dreams to the back of your cottony mind; opening your eyes to a dull tap tap tap on the railing of your terrace. 

It's like a gentle respite, as if nature was saying to you, "lay still, don't move a single muscle, close your eyes and listen to the drops I pour down for you, I'm cleansing this space you've been put in". And that's exactly what I do. I lay still, curled up like a baby within the folds of my sleep-smelling bedsheets, and meanwhile the noise of the rain shuts up the madness that is constantly trying to tear me away from myself. I only slip out of my bed for a second, to open my windows as wide as they'll go, and I go back in, letting the cool wind wash over my tender flesh, warmed by the strong hold of Morpheus' arms. 

I love mornings like this. When I wake up at 6 am, a too godforsaken hour for anyone in their right mind to be awake yet, and the only thing I can hear is the dull dub dub dub of my heart beating against the cage of bones that holds my breath in place, and the dull dip dip dip of the rain outside my linen nest. 

But they're not dull sounds, are they? 

No, they're definitely not. They remind me that things are strangely complicated and so, so easy at the same time. That the dub dub dub I hear within my usually constricted chest is just my blood being pumped from my heart, but it's not just that. It's life flowing from that thick arrange of muscles with no sensitivity whatsoever, feeding the bundle of muscles and nerves and blood vessels that makes me up and feels everything way too deeply. It's not just the sound of water falling down from the clouds that make the skies over my head grey and gloomy, it's the world saying: "Hush. Breath. Just listen to this silence. To the lack of madness on the pavements. There's no rushing now, no need to run. Listen. Breath. Breath and breath again". 

I want to treasure moments like this, when I can bring this whirlwind that is my life to a halt, and just be. It's just me, and the rain, and the silence that, for once, lets me listen to myself. The dub dub dub of my heart fills my ears and there's nothing that can go wrong in these moments. 

I just lay still, I let Morpheus dance his gentle hands over my tired body, just like a lover would, and the grey skies give me space to breath, and breath, and breath again.