pumpkin pie and whipped cream.
lace and leather...
I exhaled a thick stream of smoke across his bare chest, I don't even recall having taken a drag of a cigarette, and let the warm tingle flood me from my hairline to the tips of my toes. my skin felt flushed and buzzing, and the faint ba-bump of my heart was about as still as the girl it used to beat for.
our sculptor, my sculptor, in his passion for beauty and the arts and life and death and everything in between, was a lover of absinthe.
how... fitting. how tragically, poignantly, brilliantly fitting.
the disarmingly sweet cube of sugar he poured the green liquid over. the dangerously wild flame. the licorice bite.
what a pair, what a pair.
he'd take a sip and as it trickled down his throat his eyes would close, a soft purring sound would part his wet lips. he said he loved the connection he felt with whatever stone he was working on. he said he did it for the taste.
he did it because he liked to get set back on his heels, have his world ripped from under him. he could dress it up any way he wanted to, he liked getting fucked up.
and I thoroughly enjoyed watching him.
the sighing that turned into purring that turned into growling, the fluttering of his gold-tipped lashes, the slurring of his pretty, recklessly chosen words. he liked being swept off his feet and away.
he was beautiful when he didn't have that ground to keep him, he was heartbreaking without gravity to tell him what to do.
he was... well, he was damn near perfect. and having lived and breathed an obsession with very real perfection for a very long time , I'm a bit of an authority on the matter.
I've never personally witnessed anybody feel things quite like him. he would absorb them and own then, wear them and parade them like a family crest. he gave things that weren't his meaning and life, until they decided they had no business where they were anyway and gave themselves over. he was a collector of things that were lost on the rest of the world, he made them beautiful like he was. he protected them.
and, quite possibly my favorite part of all of it, he loved every last one of them, with all of his strength and his heart.
I read reviews on his work, once.
"too young," some claimed. "he's not yet developed as an artist."
"too old," some touted. "his methods and philosophies are dated and obsolete."
"it's fine," wrote the others. "but i just don't know if I get it."
well I get it. and I love it. it stirs me, it moves me, like that ever-pursing mouth. it intrigues me and excites me, it pains me. it breaks my heart.
people like him, like me, weren't meant for this world, so we find pathways to our own any way we can.
and right now, with his leg thrown over my body and his chest rising and falling under my hot, pink cheeks, I can't think if any other world I'd rather be a part of. the anise flavor of the contraband liquor makes my throat burn and leaves a bittersweet taste in my mouth and that just makes my insides scream "more, more, give me more!"
if he has a flaw, it's that he's all too willing. the fluted glass is almost too warm for my lips but he holds it there til they part, the liquid still hot from his black mini bic. his hand never wavers from the constant steady pour as he kisses my throat, encouraging me to swallow.
oh, and I do.
I've felt a rush like that, but never three, four, five times in succession. his lazy gaze is almost equal in its reward and as my body gets wrapped in imaginary wool I drift off, wondering how I ever wasted my time with things small enough to fit in cheap pine boxes.