MEMORIES
[Pause, deep breath]
In the past few weeks, I’ve suffered the fate of a man ignorantly burdened by the ghost of feelings buried alive... and the horrors of undead desires.
I’ve tried to write into my past, a play that still rolls on the stage of my heart.
Never did it cross my mind, and nothing prepared me for this:
That in a life where we don’t get do-overs, I might one day have to let go of the love I once offered her.
To let go of every dream, every memory, every joy... and even the hurt that confirms the truth of how we felt.
That I might one day have to erase every giggle and every cry we ever shared. That life may demand I bury the essence of what she was to me, all she’s ever been... And the possibility of her ever being more.
The threads of a tangled future, woven together, torn apart.
Now I am compelled to choose. To either let it live...
Or strangle to death her character, as played in my heart. To erase the mark of her existence in my story, As though it never mattered.
[Pause, soften tone]
But no. No. I’ll bury her alive, twelve feet deep. Bound in chains, in darkness, accursed and forbidden.
...For she did matter. The horrors of undead desires. The unbidden flames of lust, and a longing that refuses to die.
They surface in moments of weakness, haunting me with a hunger I no longer wish to feel. The longing for her body, her warmth. The primal echoes that creep into my nights and dreams. Clouding my clarity.These are battles I fight within myself.
All forbidden feelings.
All things I must silence
For what if...
What if the buried specter of my past rises again?
What if these feelings, these undead desires, tear at the foundation of what I’ve built? A stable mind?
[Pause, steady voice, hint of vulnerability]
I fear the quiet betrayal of my own heart.
Not in an act, not in a word but in the whispers of a past that should have been silenced.
[Firm, resolved tone]
I know the answer.
I know the how.
But this confession...
This moment of truth felt necessary, because I wonder now...
What her room now looks like. Is it painted now or still the plastered and solid walls I got acquainted with? Will her footprints stain the walls now if her legs took respite from my shoulders unto the walls?
I heard she started yoga and I again wonder now... How wide… how wide can she spread her legs in the heat of passion? Enough to look down south into my eyes, and lock gaze with them, as my head finds a home between her thighs? Is it stretched or tender now? I'd like to know. Perhaps If I asked firmly but politely, "may I stick three fingers and a tongue in it?
Do I eat it rare, unprocessed… or would you prefer I cook it first?"
I imagine she'd lay back and drape her body, au naturel across the foam and show me a vision of what temptation looks like. A thirsty man, eager to drink from her sour valley and be enthralled by how thralled she gets.
And when my tongue finds her in this imagination of mine, teasing at first. Zealous, after. Gentle flicks to make her gasp for deeper tougher presses. Tasting her! Eating her! Eating her! Tasting her! Sending strokes of a soaked towel along the inner walls of her thighs… Like a mare in heat, she attempts to pull me in, urging me to go further. Begging without words.
Softly, I'll whisper in her ears: "I’m here, baby.” Gentle kisses tracing her long neck, followed by damp ripples around her nipples.
She's calm now. Settled in the storm knowing I am with her through every moment, every cry of pleasure. Until her body... finally... relaxes. Spent. Satisfied. Glowing from all the flowings smeared on her.
Sadly, to these imaginations her doors are closed, but I do wish to come inside, paint her walls white with a few million of my legacies, and hope one survives at the least!
