Cold
From Wrichacir
Revision as of 07:45, 18 February 2008
There is certain frosted beauty to a lonely night.
Frosted, like a champagne glass, with sharp lights gently distorted. Every color is deeper. Every sound resounds and echoes in my ears. Every sense is a song, and every sensation seems to sing out and into me.
The song I hear is a call, a beckon from my freezing self, reaching out into the acoustics. “I want to be heard, but I cannot speak.” This is the lie of the lonely. We chant it under our breaths, too quiet to be heard. We brush it against the arms and shoulders of the people we pass. We taste it in our women and our wine. But the lie is true enough, because true enough, we want to be heard…but we don’t say a thing.
The night was chill, as I said, but the chill didn’t seem to reach outside of me. My skin was hot, the street lights bright and warm. Only my eyes were cold. They took in all the heat and color like a void, and left me nearly weeping. It was a beautiful night. It was terrible that it had to hurt so much to be so beautiful.
The lonely sing with their eyes, you see. Every action has reaction, and everything one sees, sees us. And so, to trick the lie, the truth is written along our irises. We hope against hope that someone will see those darkened orbs and ask a question. Prod beyond the lie. Force us out of our comfort zone. We want to be rescued, even if we want to fight rescue. Then again, maybe only I feel that way. I say we because a horde of lonely travelers is much more poetic than a solitary existence.
She saw my eyes, and knew the lie for what it was. I saw her eyes, and saw her intentions. I said some empty words, and she responded in kind. We danced, we drank, but we never smiled. We talked, but we never really spoke. She saw the need in me, and I saw the hunger in her. She was going to take advantage, and I was going to let her. She asked if we should dance some more, but something in my eyes answered the question. I didn’t need to dance. I didn’t need her to go through the paces. I asked her where she wanted to go, and wordlessly, she took my hand and took me away.
The first kiss was clinical. Practiced. It was perfection without art. The lips pressed against mine knew every curve and every valley of my mouth and pierced me with sensation with a distant, experienced skill. I looked into her eyes, and watched them go from resigned into uncertainty. She kissed me again, but stumbled forward, clumsy, thrown off guard. That failure of a kiss took my breath away. She looked like she would have blushed, but she couldn’t blush. She gave me a weak sort of smile, and I touched her cheek. I opened my mouth and my tongue felt heavy. The silence was oppressive. She looked into my eyes, and the façade crumbled. Guilt and need flooded her face, and some part of me understood.
“Do it.” I said, and the silence grew heavier in my wake. She looked away, and brushed her chin towards me. “Do it.” I repeated. “Take what you want, just don’t leave.” The words nearly brought me to tears; speaking the truth was too raw. Tears came to her eyes as well. Crimson. Haunted.
It was a stunning transformation to behold. The hunting cat became a woman before my eyes. The cocky confidence turned into furtive kisses. The sure and sensual swaying ceased, replaced by fumbling with clothes and whispered nonsense. The only part of the act that lingered was the hunger, though the veneer of lust was peeled away, left naked to an ugly truth. I fell in love that night, tangled up in her soft and novice comforts.
There was a sudden penetration, and then a slower rush of feeling. It was the pleasure of worries fading. It was a draining joy, one that left me numb and exhausted, eager for more. I looked down and her lips were shining red against my collarbone, before she dove back in, her eyes feral and distant. I think I whispered thanks, which made her shake with emotion and drink deeper.
I felt a kiss in the haze, and a beckoning. A familiar call, but with an unfamiliar voice. I knew a loneliness with skill to put my own to shame. There, in the heat and the darkness, I felt ashamed. I drank in that lonely call, and rose to answer. I drank to fullness of her sweet wine, and let out a final honest gasp.
Some time has passed, and I yet walk through streetlights and winter air. My eyes have changed, however. My own call is a distant echo, silent when we walk together. But I still hear it whispered through the shadows, eyes eager to be seen. I see them. I answer, if only for a night. And I take what I need in return. What was done to me, I do not do to them. In the morning, they may feel lonely again, but others find some kind of relief in an unexpected interlude, motivation to make something real. I watch them, to see them fail or flourish.
I have time to do so, now. And so I walk, sometimes hand and hand with my one-time huntress. But some nights, I prefer to walk alone.
