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Aimless

by: Jason Spidle

Without his glasses he could see nothing but tones and blur, edges charred and bleeding. Speckles of candlelight flit and fumble in a glass of water. She takes a sip, ingesting flame. Her skin shines a bronze shadow against the darkened walls of the room, the ceiling black like night and he can’t see the glint of a single star in the sky. All along his periphery are objects shaped like anonymity. He understands that this is a real place, a real room, but this figure before him challenges that notion in breaths lifting and receding. The lines of her body shoot sharp and forming as he guides his putrid pupils tracing the slope and tumble of her figure, noting the somber grace of her face all darkened crevices and craters feathered with still darker strands which graze like blades framing her delicate neck tasting of salt and he thinks of the tension of her nape pressed pointing against his teeth, his lips and tongue soaking up the extract laid upon the faintly finer hairs hidden behind her ears. He continues to search in chronological order and wasn’t it her eyes that he first feasted upon so many weeks ago? Now shrouded in caverns and besides his glance travels downward across the curve of her breasts, an unlikely silhouette of flesh and he flinches at the impossibility of sight, her nipples blots of nots consuming the nearly softer glance of his hands and he can see with his nose the pores and moles etched into the fold of her shoulder tasting perspiration dried in notches along her ribs. She reaches to set the glass on a table as he watches with perfect clarity those wonderful ligaments and muscles interacting with pivot and of course her back would be adorned with winged vegetation, this angel of the earth. She turns her head to question his eyes attempting to locate the precise point at which her stomach turns to pelvic pubic, those velvet plucks squinting legally blind and she thinks it a curious thing that he cannot see yet scrutinizes from a distance too great for his mind to travel. But he does, following the length of her legs pulsing pulsing pulsing at this exalted apparition and though she is true to wonder, the mystery of his eyes soak in the luxury of her thighs so warm to the touch and bracing, a physical law unto themselves and don’t they look perfect held by her knees, her calves, her feet folded back invisible but he can see enough to know. He can see memory before his eyes standing as clearly as remembered. She wraps those ridiculous legs around the length of his torso, the whole of her face flickering with fire leapt from her mouth into his. They press in thrusts of liquid friction until they are simply adjoined, a journey adjourned the balls roll behind his lids and their lips sink into drips and dabbles of forgetting.