His jaw line was sharp and hardened with maturity over the years of his intellectual growth. It was miraculous to witness the visible evolution in aesthetics subsequent to a change in philosophy. His corrected posture, posed and confident, made an infinite difference. As he admired his model, however, he attested to the stretch ahead.
His eyes, a blend of hazel which looked green from a distance, were saturated with sentiment. And yet, if she were to say this aloud, it could not be understood. Laughter would ensue – “what’s the punch-line?” because his face knew no sadness. No drama, and no depression. The guilt-inducing emotions were non-existent. However, he could be moved by aggression and endearment. He could be brought to his knees by his temple of reverence, of awe, of ownership; of what must be deserved and won.
His hair was like fire: thick, and violently red. Of all of his features, he loved his hands the most. Today, those hands had been put to work, shaping and breaking the clay against rough palms. His angular shoulders shifted with precision and expertise, and the visualization was more glorious than any angelic depiction.
The woman would never bow her head in church, would never kneel before an altar, but, with him, she felt a profound sense of religious adulation; of salvation, almost. He was no angel. Darkened by the earth’s sun and strengthened through tribulations, here was a creature who was not reluctant to be, as was his birth, man.
At any given instance, something had to rupture, but she enabled the impulse to escalate in confinement. Her expression was a lake with the immobility of glass; an unbroken surface, or the unchallenged equanimity before some massacring storm, prepared to burst into explosion. Although their sharp silence screamed of profanity, he remained at peace, bathed in her grace. She wore his gift upon a slender wrist: a watch of chains, binding time and pushing forth the waiting game. An unclad collarbone was exposed beneath the thin, orange sheet, which she excused under the pretenses of a robe. The royal colors were endless, not dissimilar to her legs as they stretched over the bed. The sheet was thin and barely acceptable. It opposed her skin like another man, flowing over and mating with silky, rose covers.
Her cruel eyes were shut; her lips, partially opened; her face – closed. Concealed by the hair that enveloped her merciless features and swallowed them alive, she was bound by the ticking of his clock as he sculpted the clay, apathetic to her genuine body but feet away.
– – –
Indigo waves rush through eroded rocks. The points, piercing the surface like daggers to a fluid pulse, untouched by the emanating currents, are sharp and jagged around gnawed edges. She sits in the dirt, her long sun-brown legs absorbing a cool aurora; toes playing in the tide as guppies flock to them curiously, murmuring secrets against soft flesh before gracing it with lively tails as they scatter onwards. Her eyes are portions of the atmosphere, captured for decoration.
A khaki notebook upon his lap, he watches this unfold, unconscious of his adoring stare, and equally averse to breaking the connection. In the corner, he sketches an outline of her silhouette. She gazes to the stars, seeing nothing; lost in thought as the spring mist signifies a memory sinking upon the municipality, under the rising moon, conquering the terrible hues of lilac.
Without explanation, she slips into the water. The conflagrating, searing twinge, and the tremor of muscles decrepitly quivering as her body is ravaged, as she collapses within the bearing as a face drowned below the surface, where he can no longer see, is torturous to defer, but the fury is her maximum splendor. A moving current cuts through the arctic river, the surface of which masks a concealed beauty: the deadly maturation of knowledge hidden inside the head of a naked woman, ripping through the forgotten whispers of twilight.
Her unabashed determination to the future translates history into a potential for restored and elated beginnings, and so, out of respect, he stands back, waiting for her to rise again.
– – –
Like a rabid animal clawing its way through, you’ve come for me: my lover, the repressed. Sleep, I am not avoiding you. I swear. There is much on my mind to pull us apart. I know that you will wait on me again, patiently beckoning. Sleep, you are so familiar when you take me in your arms. You ask not where I have been, although a foreign taste delights my neck.
Your embrace is one of recognition and of warmth, a juxtaposition when contrasted with the cold of my skin. Sleep, I apologize for my absence. I am stricken. I know that you want me, lifeless and still. Take it now, because the dawn’s judging eyes will spur further resistance.
In assurance, you step aside, motivated by the knowledge that eventually, I must return to you; certain that I cannot live without you. Helplessly, I concede.
My gown of black silk, weary upon a form fierce in stature, lies cold as granite in the pale moonlight. His pondering stare grants the impression of soul-searching, and I know that, prying into my face with an unprecedented intensity, searching for something evident in each movement, he sees more than this flesh. The wind teases my hair, and our eyes are engaged. Mine convey a message: I am not ashamed to expose myself before you. I have nothing to hide.
He tempts me, darling, for again, we share a night of restless tossing, and, again, I am with someone else as you lie alone, a vicious smile, self-induced torture, unbothered by the revelation of my incessant destruction, but perhaps taken by the limits to which we push ourselves. You have always recognized what I am. Maybe you are excited when contemplating the frustration by which skin is meeting, or by the prospect of my body, unmoved in his most frenzied pursuit – It is not as you expect: I will rise to life. It is not a matter of controlling me, but of destroying the presence of inhibition; of personal dominance. My grotesque reminiscences are to be restrained and liberated in paradox, so that the resulting grandeur may attain its rightful glory. He is too gentle to help me. I am still unconquered, will always be unconquered.
I curl up beside you at the end of hours, my head supported by your hard chest. As I am held in arms that know me, too tired to protest further, I sleep in comfort with the steady rise and fall, to the sound of your heart’s supremacy.
A battle fought for years, one finds it hard to surrender. It is important to remember that I am not losing, and that this adaption is a triumph unto itself. A triumph over myself.
– – –
The dusk is a living creature. Each vehicle racing down the wet street provides it with rich respiration. The mechanical titans slice through the night, cradled by fragmentizing eruptions which clap like thunder, swallowing the consistent rhythm of nocturnal hours. The remaining laconism of their absence is enhanced, so that her every word sounds alone in the suffocating quietude, clear and penetrating as a recurrent initiation, again and again.
Her brown boots have created a comforting beat in collision with hard cement, and the thuds dissolve into pearls as puddles cling to their elevating motion. He heeds, simply to survey her movement, for he likes that she is going somewhere, and, in this instant, that they are going somewhere together.
His voice could never be familiar, because it is not to be possessed. He won’t be owned, and she is separate, even beside him. It has been remarked that in her presence, people feel continually unaccompanied. The right men, the good men of esteem, are liberated, whilst the guilty cower, smothered and trapped beneath the brutality of steadfast standards. Their two figures walk with straight backs and arrogant shoulders. It is enough to catch second looks from those whom bustle past, hunched over and cold, but she addresses the weather with pleasure. Although not fond of it himself, it is hard to resist that rare, dazzling smile when she laughs, allowing streams to drip down her loose, black shirt, exposing both shoulders with shameless disregard for conventional modesty.
Running water is a constant outpouring of energy and good health. It represents regular and reliable progress. There are those who will hide from it, fearful of disrupting make-up and hair, but she holds her arms open, as if to say of the whole damn city “take me. I am without regret.” The road is linear and definite. A destination has been determined, and now it is only a matter of progressing towards that goal.
– – –
The wind was bitter to her hair, blowing about and dancing alongside the challenging fiend like a blur of sunlight in the dark of night as the glowing waters illuminate golden strands. Her eyes were level, looking to the battle with an intensity unmatched even by the pounding of waves, colliding against silver sand and pulling back to taunt the shore with promises of undisclosed satisfaction should it follow into the massive expanse of black, untamed sea. Her palms were pointed toward the torrid exchange, leaving her body assailable, but her countenance did not share this predilection. She displayed an intrepid audacity, innocent to humility and distress, as if she had the might to fend off such a barbarous demon of fluid power; as if she stood a chance. And yet, she did not resist. She would never deny herself again.
The war continued with the slap of waves and rock, followed by acute retraction. Had these been men, surely the stone would fall, stripped, overcome by the secession of blows, offering no sanctuary or shield. The combat sequence continued endlessly, rather than let her tension escalate. It was a free passage of truculence, consenting to its presence; the release spawned from total admission.
Not surrender, but the recognition that it must be done. Forget the wind and its howling malediction. There would always be ongoing strikes as bits of shard material bit into her bruised arms, carried in gusts of freakish opposition, but she didn’t care to acknowledge it. There came a time when you couldn’t, and she chose to focus her attention on the grand performance ahead.