Behind the veil of immaculate speeches and harsh promises they would lie down, naked, and she would stroke him, her fingertips tracing the curve of his lower back – smooth like the slope of a sunny dune softly glowing beneath her hand – careful to stay far away from his hands that always stretched out reaching for more, that increasingly smelled of corroding iron – far away from the red waves freely flowing through his clenched fists, she would lay her face in his sand and lick the salt off his skin – only to find she was tasting her own tears.
Maybe it was the party. The wine. A premeditated act. Fate. Whatever the reason, they had ended up dangerously close to each other. She suddenly noticed. She felt how her blood rushed towards her cheeks as he leaned in to whisper in her ear, his lips brushing the aura of her earlobe, after which he gently stroked a strand of her hair out of his way, simultaneously guiding her face to face his, moving in for a kiss. Kiss. She watched through her eyelashes, stuck between staring and blinking, her knees trembling, and wished someday he would kiss her too.
Not seeing you
‘Blindfold me,’ I asked you seductively shyly. To my surprise you complied, dressed in nothing but a loving smile. The scarf tied at the back of my head, lips, kiss, tongue, fingers on my back, on your legs, on everywhere, in everywhere, there, yes there, now more, smell, lick it, taste, in, in, sound of wet flesh grinding, pounding, harder, faster, until, until, UNTIL.
‘That was good,’ you panted. ‘Hush now,’ I whispered, still sightless. Give me just a moment, I thought, a few seconds more, before the guilt sets in for the reason for my request.
They were riding the Bakerloo line and I watched. She was tall, pale, nice-nailed. He was taller, tanned, light-hearted. They held the same pole with a symbiotic smize, two hurricane eyes becoming one. Her fingertips reshaped his hair. Her thumb perfected his cheek by rubbing off the tiniest smudge. Gratefully, he leaned in for a kiss, but the doors opened. She jumped out and zigzagged through the crowd. He began his pursuit, bumped his head, bled heavily and yelped her name with several question marks. She didn’t turn around and I gave up reading gossip there and then.
Cecile Bol is a Dutch writer with a small family and a big garden in the north of the Netherlands. Her English work has appeared in The Blue Nib, Black Bough Poetry, Eye Flash Poetry Journal, Vamp Cat Magazine, impspired, Picaroon Poetry, The Lake and anthologies from The Frogmore Press and Earlyworks Press