Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Mysterious ink.

I dream of my dreaming as I lay, deep in slumber in the dark. I dream of my waking as you approach the bed, undress, and slide in beside me. I have felt you, and it's been so very, very long. I've missed you... not as badly as I used to, but I've missed you.

I have felt you beside me again, and my eyes open to the clouded wonder of your presence in the room.

The covers are thick and grey and warm as we entwine in them. You're fitter, thinner, than I remember you being, but it is you, and my spirit is soaring. You're nude. I'm nude. Your beautiful back takes my caresses with softness and memory, and I relish in the pleasure of massaging your muscles again. I remember.

It's just been so very, very long. You feel wonderful. Are you really here with me?

Your shoulders are tense, and I smile deeply to myself as your skin yields to my touch once more. You lay on your stomach, the grey covers curled about our limbs as my working hands make their way to your spine, the small of your back. My fingers push your flesh into slow waves. Your delightful bottom is before me, and I want to bring my face close to you as my hands continue roaming, massaging, releasing tension from your muscles.

It's then that I see the patterns. You have new ink. It's almost raised like some neolithic image on a stone wall in Tanzania. New tattoos. Dots upon dots just under your ass, stark and black and strong within the sensitive skin at the back of your thighs. And, under them all, you bear... inscriptions. There are words in poetic meter, bold and small letters that have a message. What does it say? Is it about you? Is it something I must know? What is this in, upon, across your thighs that I must read?


But I awaken. I wake and you're gone again. Only I remain in the bed under the thick, grey, warm covers, and the inscriptions inked into the back of your thighs remain as mysterious to me as you yourself.

3 comments:

Alice Kytler said...

There is something exceedingly poignant about this. This bit in particular:
"And, under them all, you bear... inscriptions. There are words in poetic meter, bold and small letters that have a message. What does it say? Is it about you? Is it something I must know? What is this in, upon, across your thighs that I must read?"
I was really struck by the sense of open-ended emotionalism in them. It made a lot of sense to me. The most powerful emotions that linger the longest often contain that sense of open-endedness, of mystery or non-completion. Where you don't quite understand how or why that person captured your imagination as they did or what it meant even after it's over. Mmm, some very potent writing.

Not-so Virtuous Vivian said...

Oui, Madame Alise! Such a beautiful description of dancing words.

And, hello there you naughty Rogue. ;) Nice story.

Rogue said...

Madame Alise ~
I treasure even the moments of quiet desire, echoes of yearning that linger after the most favourite of affairs may have shifted, changed, or even ended. The truth is that only a few of my past lovers have remained so deeply ingrained within me, although I have loved them all in varying degrees. They are the ones I will think of most when I am finally on my deathbed, reflecting and smiling to myself about in the dark.

Perhaps I will dream of them all when all lights finally do go out.


Mademoiselle Vivienne ~
And a saucy hello to you too, naughtily unvirtuous one. Always a pleasure to elicit a smile from you.


Thank you, ladies.