oscitancy
“Being a beacon of hope for lesser people is a lonely business. ”
Our studio is colder than the beach, the
marbled tiles and granite fixtures absorb
winter. I walk barefoot to taste the hardness
in my bones. You bring me my blue slippers
and I slip my midnight-painted toes into the
fur. In the morning, I make espresso and hold
the liquid between my lips. I like to feel the burn
at the roof and back of my mouth. You let yours
sit awhile, in the clear demitasse before taking
small sips. Your hands look so big in the room.
Especially when they’re holding mine. We walk
to the beach, me with my arms crossed, and the
wind turns my hair upside down. My neck is much
longer from the ballet classes and I feel the bitter
breeze down my shirt to my nipples and waist.
You put my hand in your pocket without either
of us saying a word. You swim, and I watch. You
play soccer and I read. You come back to me
covered in salt and sweat, your skin hard as a
glacier. We watch the sun bleed red over the sea
before walking home. Dining in the dark, silence
creates a cave of the room and when you strip my
clothes, I can’t stop shivering. I taste spring. Seeds
burst and birds cry. Petals so soft I tremble. Summer
arrives as you stretch out beneath me. The frost is
in the shadows and we are alive with moonlight,
swimming under the stars.
Photo source.
