Stood on the cliff edge ready to soar like an eagle and instead I teeter and cling. Leapt from the plane to find the strings on the parachute cut.
Can't relax to be touched, though my heart needs picking up and dusting off.
So not the brief, but I was seeking comfort. Trying to comfort eat something healthier than chocolate. Trying to avoid drinking. Smoked salmon...and the blank page became this.
The strangest things remind me of you.
The sweet, firm flesh of smoked salmon and I am eating you out. My whole being is there, from the solid land under itchy blanket to the slightly acrid smell of your rollies clinging to your clothes.
Gin and Elderflower, bitter and savoury with the scent of grass, and the bad festival music plays brash and crass in my memories. My tongue sliding against smooth skin, lips kissing coarse hair, the overwhelming scent of hot flesh and want.
Knicker elastic biting into a softly padded crease where thigh meets arse. In picture. In person. Beneath my fingers. Damp sweat and beer, a living breathing presence where tentative licks and dabs are our first touch of home base.
Unskilled kisses, my hands fumbling under your sweater. Stiff, fabric and broderie anglais shaping you into pointed peaks. The frustration of thick fabric hiding your nipples and the clumsiness of my fingers.
Frustrated, I pushed you back and popped the stud on your jeans. Your laugh, still familiar, but never earthier, as you lifted your hips and dragged clinging jeans down your pale, downy thighs.
I miss you. Miss who we were.