Listen to this

Delchai’s words rang in the crisp air, “Don’t forget to call upon the Spirits of the Wind before feeding.” She shook her head in disbelief; it couldn’t be time again already. Yet Sephedrie knew better than to taunt her gods. She whispered a prayer of capitulation and fell to her knees, heart open to the sky.

He held her. One hand gripped her hair tightly, the other danced ripples over her brow. It was the shining black peace activation of khafi. His energy sliced through her, a blowtorch to her armor; she melted to him out of choice. She melted out of necessity. She melted and fell backwards. She melted. She melted. She melted. He held her as her body jolted through the stages of amalgamation. A hardened ivy leaf skipped across the otherwise-untouched field of snow. The sun was sinking.

The camera lens sparked and sputtered. Egg shells painted the grey slate of her skin. He held her, and the vines twisted tighter still around her limbs. She was a snowed in angel, and he dug her wings out from the drifts, carved glyphs on her back, following the curvature of shoulder blades. He marked her. She convulsed.

The pain flickered over the canvas of her. Flickered through her. She surged and she bucked. Her eyelids fluttered. Rivulets of blood adorned his immaculate handiwork. It was the small death of self, the larger unveiling of self, the awakening of the lataif and the junction of the valleys.

Surface light annihilation of false identity gave way to that which lived beneath. She curled into his palm, a marionette with crimson silk ribbon strings. He held her. And he shook with her. It was the fiery burn of absolute stillness before the anchoring of fresh spirit inside her veins, the quill’s ink hot with his breath. His ascendancy shimmered on her form, gold and red and black.

His fingertips grazed across her chafed skin. And she was transported to the ocean. Every touch was electric. Whispered echoes called to her from the shadows, from the depths. So hum. Fingertips grazed across skin, and he breathed her all the way to her cunt. The blue inside of her pulsed. The red inside of him spiraled.

Inhalations carried the intricate patterns, the many threads of the tapestry, further into them both. Her heart beat throughout the landscape of her body. It was loud enough to touch the arc of her inner thigh. Skin like velvet gave way, fluid like waves, like spirit travels and there was the crashing too, the breaking against, the tension building.

She fell into his palm because it was there that desire could be safely unraveled. Fingertips grazed across chafed skin. And it was nonetheless silken. Blood red. It sparked when he blew upon it. This was the content that was malleable, the vessel activated, the canvas painted, the sculpture molded. So hum was the mantra of the muse no longer content to be in hibernation.

Fingertips grazed across skin and woke up the sleeping kundalini serpents. Layers were peeled back; layers were created: a dynamic collage, a narrative of desire that wasn’t at all linear.

Her limeflower bud was electric blue (blue, not green) and she was warm and hot at once. Throbbing her words out. Plump with arousal, she screamed for the world to hear. (Or only herself.) (Or him.) In any case, she demanded an audience. The sea was too much to navigate solo. The whispers became more insistent. “Take me,” she said.

And it echoed off of her body’s interior. The blood carrying the demand, magnifying it, multiplying it.

“Take me,” she said.

Her moans came out in the same shade of rose, and her tongue pushed up against the roof of her mouth as her muscles clenched. Before the exhale, a starburst shattered the boundaries that might have been. It was the razor’s edge. And they danced in the liminal spaces, the borderlands, their eyes clouded with lust. Fingertips grazed across skin (in)curvature, (in)creasing, (in)streaming, (in)love.

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