Fantasies

Fantasies, flavored with red wine, nicotene, esspresso, exuberant lust, thin arms, long hair, and whispering french.

It's the kind of air you breath when you fear your organs might combust with heat.

The kind of gaze your eyes take when you think it just might be real. Not all in my head?

It's a black dress and heels, a head of wild wavy hair, a dark scarf hiding an exquisite face, a man running through flooded streets screaming at the Gods.

I imagine my lips pressed in, thick tongue, warm hands, pulsing heart, the grabbing of hair. Then... a softening, a calm pause, a meeting of the eyes, of the heart. Playfulness at the absolute obsurdity of this intensity. Why?

It's a moment of recognizing, you've known this far before now, before your eyes were blue, and your ass a body part of reckoning.

You've swallowed this seed and spit it back out again... Again... AGAIN.

What this time? Will the passion of this craving burst the heart into molten lava only to harden and crack?

Will I suffocate with the swelling of the throat, trapping the seed, and sink in fear of the loss of this again... Again... AGAIN?

The pieces of this fantasy are clumsily falling through my basket as the woven wood splits and frays with gigantic holes and my arms reach fast in every direction to catch the tumbling pieces and put them back together again... Again...AGAIN.... AND I TRIP.

Time slows down. The basket goes from my grasp flying up into a cloudy sky. Its contents bouncing about in space. Me flying head first. Knee hits ground, then hip, elbow, shoulder, head. Skull Cracks and blood flows forth.

A red river flows down the cracks of hardened lava rock. A small nest of baby blue birds sing to their mother, resting in an ancient tree. The sky now cloudless but the horizon, with the orange hue of sunset.

My eyes open, and I am a small girl playing hopscotch, ... Again.