To The Men I’ve Loved And...
Photo Credit to: Laura Bailey (Instagram: Lauramariewrites)
I wonder what makes you think about me.
Is it the moon?
The way her pale light silhouetted my naked body as I slept? It doesn’t matter whose bed it is, I always curl up with a sigh and drift away into dreams. Sometimes I liked to imagine that you watched me as I slept, memorizing the bow of my lips, my feather light lashes, the unruly strands of my blonde-now-silver-hair. Did you touch my face, at that moment when I was so vulnerable to you?
Or did you turn onto your side, facing the other direction?
That way, you didn’t have to question if it was you I dreamt about, in my deep slumber…
What about whiskey?
The way I’d burn myself, lit like a match, whenever I drank. My eyes were blue wildfire, and my lips tasted like lightning. Something about whiskey ignited my own needs. I was tearing at your clothes, my mouth leaving teeth marks on your shoulder, your back covered with claw marks from my nails.
We were amber, amber, amber; suspended in fossilized memories.
I don’t even drink, anymore, but I hope you taste me whenever bourbon touches your lips.
I know: anyone that knows me well links me to faeries. But, do you?
Do you stroll down the aisles of a costume shop with your new love beside you, only to have your gaze snag on a pair of iridescent, dragonfly-like wings? Does she pause beside you, wondering why you’re eyeing them so hungrily? Does she make a lighthearted joke about “fairies” (and what that means in our culture, these days)?
Are you remembering my unclothed body, adorned with wings on my shoulders, and the way I slid on top of you until you groaned with pleasure and need?
How you reared up and slammed into me until I screamed?
The wings quivered as if alive, caught up in our haze of lust and desire.
Yea. I bet you remember now.
The color green?
My wide eyes were wet with tears, when one, or both of us, said goodbye. It didn’t matter who left, or how, or why.
I’ve got the ocean in me, and in these times of passion and sorrow, she likes to spill out of me like my own kind of rain.
You - all of you - remarked on the iridescent shimmer of my eyes. Green like a hushed tree canopy; green like a sea-goddess-witch; green like the promise of our own spring.
Green like old bruises.
Green like jealousy.
I know you think about me.
Wonder about me.
Fantasize about me.
I guess, sometimes, that has to be enough.