Sunday, 28 June 2015


How fortunate I am to be able to mourn your loss, even though you are not yet wholly gone.

I wrote, some time back, but didn't dare post about how conflicted I was. To trust or not to trust. To take that leap, despite the fact that when I asked you told me of your own uncertainty.

I'm still too scared to tell you that I have never been uncertain of myself.

To tell you would be to scare you and I don't want to lose you that way.

By my silence I lost you in every other conceivable way.

You gave me hope. You asked for time.

Then you took it away when you asked for other avenues. I felt that I had truly lost you.

Now I'm waiting for sand to run out, the clockwork to wind down. Moment by moment the time passes in silence.

Perhaps when you tell me it is the end I will be out of tears and I can find the courage to tell you all of the truth.

Or perhaps I will find the strength to stay silent, and watch you walk away knowing that my words will only make you unhappy.

I will do anything I can to avoid making you unhappy.

I love you. I will miss you.

Thursday, 11 June 2015

A visible depiction of invisible desire

A kiss. A feather soft touch, warm and tingly, caressing the point where her neck meets her shoulder. The delicacy of the contact is only emphasised by the coarse roughness of his stubble, scraping and scratching slightly higher on her neck where his jawline presses against her. He is not quick - the moment lasts as he inhales the scent of her hair and moves slightly away before he exhales. His breath is hot against her exposed skin now made hyper sensitive by his ministrations.

She shivers with delight and turns into his arms. They are thicker than hers and liberally coated with hair. They fit nicely into the small of her back as he pulls her towards him. She arches, her hips tilting into his as she leans her shoulders and head back to look up into his eyes. His eyes are shadowed and sunken, his stubble unkempt and his hair wildly tousled but he carries an air of triumph and relief.

She smiles, reaches a hand up to his jaw and strokes along the line of it. His eyes close and he tilts his face to lie as though it were resting in her palm. She holds still for a few seconds until his eyes open and his lips quiver slightly as he peeps mischievously at her. Her head tilts in response and she casts him the age old expression of a loving woman who knows she is expected to pass reprimand or encourage bad behaviour.

His smile widens and he adjusts his grip to pull her flush against him before resting his head alongside hers and holding still for almost a minute. She waits for him to speak, on occasion gently running her fingers through his hair until he is ready.

"It's finished." His words are mumbled on an exhale, signifying the unconscious depths of his relief and exhaustion.

She smiles, knowing how important this is to him. He has been working for days and before that had been worried for weeks, enough that once he could work on it she immediately knew she wouldn't see him much that evening. The evening had turned into the weekend and now here they were. Glad that completion of the project signals the end of his stress she decides to reclaim him and presses her mouth up to his jawline. It's long been a signal of hers and he immediately responds, turning to meet her lips with his. Although they begin softly, she drives him to passion rapidly and their actions are soon intense and urgent. At some point they lay entwined in their bed and afterwards she waits for him to sleep and quietly leaves to return to her studio.

There she pulls a new canvas and begins to paint, layers of colours entwining without mingling. It begins formless, but as she progresses the impression of petals and brambles evolve. She continues, layering idea over invisible idea. By the time he awakens and seeks her out, the painting evokes the image of a woman, eyes closed, head tilted down. Cascading down upon her are innumerable formless objects which she is painting over, removing, adding additional one in search of that one object that will describe the feelings of their intimacy.

He doesn't speak but takes a seat in a deep soft armchair arranged for precisely this purpose and watches her. In the background the radio is playing and the two of them remain in restful silence as her painting develops.