children of idle dreams

i love to fantasize about my life as it could be years from now.

usually these fantasies are the results of decisions--and the consequences that follow. i like to place myself in these alternate worlds of life, try them on, walk around a bit, see how they fit. i imagine not only my life, but the lives of those i love. even lives of little beings that don't exist. children who have not been born.

one such question resulting from these flights of fancy is that of us. is it so vain and thoughtless to see you and i as an us? maybe.

would we fight alot? probably.

would we love each other? who knows.

would we be the trendy pair, having cocktail parties every weekend at our stylish downtown apartment? would we spoil each other bitter to the core, flying to paris every few weeks for a cup of coffee and new manolo blahniks? would we stay out until four in the morning, drinking cosmos and apple martinis until even the most posh whores stared aghast? would we walk our dobermans named cain and abel in the manicured parks situated so neatly amongst the stone towers in the heart of the city? would we wonder why we had everything but still weren't happy?

because that is one fate i see us accepting as ours.

or would it be different? could it be different?

would we name our first son myles? our first daughter sophie? would we sleep in on sunday mornings, only to be woken up by our children's jumps and shrieks of laughter, begging us to make mickey mouse pancakes and waffles? would we go camping, sitting around the fire roasting marshmallows while the stars lit up our entire world in the isolation of the wilderness? would we struggle with bills, argue over money, and yet still find enough to take each other out to the movies for our weekly mom and dad date? would we freak the fuck out over a sports team, and dedicate whole afternoons to the big game? would you take our son fishing? would i take my daughter to the zoo? would we spend friday nights at home, playing cowboys and indians and having legendary battles with sir myles and lady sophie in our tiny, warm, amazingly suburban house?


i think it could be like this.

i think somewhere down this road i'm quickly speeding on i will have to make a choice. i will have to decide whether or not i would rather be sipping an ice coffee every morning on the way to work, trying to recover from the liquor dream of clubs and parties the night before; or would i rather be cleaning up vomit from the kindergarden flu, picking up assorted bob the builder toys and broken dolls, all the while scurrying to get dinner on the table just in time for daddy to come home from work.


what scares me the most is that i have no idea.

union

so much life.
running through my veins.
hurdling like track runners into my heart, my lungs, out through my throat into yours, filling us both up with colors, songs, letters, pictures, poems, wishes.

this, my friend, is a cosmic connection.
the stars blush and cry tears of pretty things as they look down upon our human birth-right to carnality. as we roll around on the short prickly grass, the mosquitos drink in our fire like sweet sugar water. six years' wait bursts forth through the dam, and the skin that has waited six years to feel skin finally feels every inch of it. these fingers have wandered far from the contours of your arms where they should be, but they are home now, as their six year confusion is ended with the firmness of you.

where does heaven end and earth begin in this ocean horizon that we have so wrecklessly charged into?

you are my heaven, and my heaven's lips meet my neck with parched thirst in their desperation to quench the starvation for the river that flows under my skin.

i shudder, shiver, and shake to think what will come when your hands stop moving, your lips move harder, and you find what you were looking for between my trembling thighs. will the life surging through my heart be too much? perhaps. a myocardial infarction at best. or more likely my heart will simply stop. the life force that had woken me from my 6 year sleep will paradoxically be my very death.

and yet...somehow i'm not afraid. i fearlessly take the plunge into the unknown world of growing up as i watch your hands and lips find all the different places of me i never thought existed solely for you.

i'm not afraid anymore.

power struggle

my stomach is crawling, still, hours after you last touched me.

i can still feel your fingers trailing up my inner thigh. another shiver.

my hand still feels the heat bulging from your now-tight jeans, every light butterfly touch i give racks your body with efforts to keep the heat under control.

i've never felt such power. knowing that with the slightest pressure, or deep ravishing scratch can bring another human being closer and closer to implosion. the people around us having no idea what torture your body and mind are being put through, no idea of how close you are. another shudder rips through your chest and you grip my hand steadily.

i think i have you under control. right at the moment when i feel like the plane is steady and i can just kick back, relax, and switch on the auto-pilot, i feel an intense, sinful burning in between my thighs. shit.

your hand is lighter than i've ever felt, yet it singes through my jeans, through the thin layer of my panties, through my skin into the very core of my own divine feminine. my hand releases you and i grip the arms of my chair. your large hands are suddenly very larger than i've ever cared to notice. i begin to arch my back but am suddenly very aware of the many people around us. i look at you and see the cruelest smile on your face.

payback's a bitch.

starvation for existence

it's here again.

2:40 a.m. i flip on my light and sit up. the raw, primal emptiness echoes through my stomach. i'm still hungry. i clumsily rustle through my drawers, fingers feeling for the rough cover of my bible. ah, there it is. my beacon of hope, the root of my salvation. my deliverance.

this is not the holy bible.

the pages of my book are worn, worn from the 200,000 times my fingers have frantically turned the pages searching for any form of fortitude. my body aches from the miles run, my chest still burns from each pounding step. my discipline grows with each inch conquered.

another pang hits my stomach. the faces of the most beautiful people in the world stare back at me. i am taunted by their eyes, lips, hands, legs, hips, breasts, hair. for a moment the seething self-hate returns to incessantly pinch my skin, the skin on my back, legs, arms, stomach, cheeks. and then it slowly fades, and my images of inspiration drive me once more.

i read the quotes scrawled out frantically in other moments of weakness.

your body is a perception of you. it shows your discipline, courage, and strength.

nothing tastes as good as thin feels.

hunger is an emotion. you can control your emotions.

desperate times call for desperate restriction.

them.

that one word does it, if nothing else will. "them". it could mean anybody...yet it means everybody. everybody i wish could see me now. everybody who does see me now, but still dont see me at all. everybody who will crave to see me when this is through, want me, desire me. love me. everybody i wish that i could see, but are too far away. or gone.

them.


the growling in my cavernous stomach subsides. the aching hunger that my body feels ebbs, or does not ebb--simply sits quietly, waiting for another opportune moment of weakness. i close my bible, my book of shadows, my sutras, and set it back in its drawer.



i starve to be known. i starve to be wanted. i starve for existence.