At the Still Point of the Turning World
by Laurie X
You rise. I follow. Follow the scent of sweat, of hard work, of effort and reach. Follow the solid shape of shoulders outlined in warm blue flannel. Follow jeans soft on long legs. The black tile floor falls away beneath us. White acoustical tile lowers. I want to climb the steps between. Touch the small of your back. Speak into your ear.
But you would turn. And you would be a ghost. Dead blue eyes sucking me in. Cold blue skin burning my touch.
But you would turn. And I would wake alone in my cold bed. Short of your lips.
But you would turn. Glacial eyes. Harsh lips. Nothing I recognize.
In extreme moments, time slows. And I remember in slow motion, too. The car flies off the mountain, loops over in the air, and we fall at the convertible’s upside-down point. I land in a tree and you disappear.
I don’t touch you.
We ascend forever.
(Laurie X rides motorcycles, worships ravens and takes only bad boys as lovers.)