Serial: The Lotus and the Rose, Chapter 2
Chapter 2: In the Autumn of Apathy
A loud voice came to me one day like the sound of waves crashing on a midnight beach; it was born a whisper in the morning light, now it’s later, near midnight. I was sitting alone writing; young and living. My body ached. Alone is all I know, empty inside, just writing and waiting. Apathy fills me, all I see is the emptiness in the words.
I am naked. The smell of hormones burned on this bare body. Awake after the physical representation of love, sex, copulation, pleasantly violent, bleeding scratches on my hips, expression of my inner aggression and sexual gratification, I just enjoyed. An arm reaches around and grasps my upper chest. Her hair floats against my skin, as ten-thousand webs would wander through the nameless void. It feels good.
“What are you doing?”
“Writing”, I can feel her soft nipple on my back. Lips, tender, brush the back of my neck (that special spot). Eyes close, I can feel her soul.
A moth rests on a white wall.
“come back to bed.” She bites hard, on that spot bordering my shoulders on the right side of my lower neck, almost breaking skin [extention].
A hand clenched on my cock [harder], leaving the story on the floor, hardly dry from the last engagement.
Picking her up, skin so soft, and taking her to the mattress; a quick toss and she’s down with a bounce. The bed screams with a squeak, the energy of the collision is stored for a moment in the metal springs, then released causing a leap back; metal on metal, the voice of the inanimate. She giggles. I follow her; she pushes me off. Her foot leaves a trace on my chest.
Now the fun begins.
Lunging in counter offense, her arms are mine, now pinned to the sheets. A tan breast my lips encircles ((lower) go lower), a naval, then to the side, ((kiss) a kiss), soft flesh, a hate-filled bite (Hate?). The bite feels good, the flesh broken under my teeth, moans from outside my, maybe a scream, perception; I don’t care, blood in my mouth, just a little bit.
Am I alone?
The voice gets louder (at noon it grew to maturity).
I release her arms, I go down, lower to her pleasure. Minuets later she grabs my hair; it hurts. Yanked to her face, a sweet kiss, it’s hard and bonding, then slow and soft as she pushes my chest with both her hands, her fluid still on my lips; i’m thrown against the wall.
The night is cold, I’m warm. Scent of the river fills the air and a nightingale spins a sorrowful sonnet and the screech of an owl prevents its conclusion.
“Did it hurt?” She whispers, a smirk on her lips, and hint of euphoria.
“It hurt good” I reply and she laughs. She goes down. She bites my inner thigh . . . twice, soon after a third.
An insincere statement, “you don’t have to do that.” She didn’t stop, and I didn’t stop her. It feels good; crest to neck to base and back again.
It’s late, long past the witching hour. The voice is louder, an ancient entity, a boom in my head. I can’t make out the words, jumbled & incoherent, like a young child rambling about a subject only he understands.
She releases with a gasp of air, pushes me down, puts me inside her; crest to neck, neck to base and back again.
Her side’s still bleeding, I can feel the blood on my hands, or is it sweat. Blood. My eyes are shut (all too soon, we are at passions point). Picking her up, i’m still inside her, her legs wrapped around my body. We fall to the floor I stay inside her (fuck harder), she starts screaming and moaning and harsh breathing.
The voice has stopped.
The neighborhood is quiet. She rests. I’m still inside her, both of us still bleeding. Not a care.
Alone is all I knew.
I feel empty.
I love her.
“I love you”, she seas in perfect conjunction with my thought.
The moth on the wall crawls to a high corner, now in shadow.
And this is only the beginning . . .
Fire above crowns,
Warming social emotion,
Steel mushroom towers;
It’s cold, but the coat warms. The ambiance is natural; a pond full of koi, potted plants provide a place for private conversation. The smell is pure, but for the cigarette smoke from all around. The inside cafe opens to the outside patio. Lighting is dim for a mysterious or romantic setting. The cafe gives that nineteen twenties impression. Beatniks & bohemians recite poetry and trade in philosophy. Malevolent characters seat themselves in corners, speaking of things unheard and conspiracies not proven. Like a film noir, the characters at play on this strange stage, tormented by subconscious guilt, sit, some in sinister silence, glowering, waiting fore a chance.
Trees in soiled pots,
Life – death waxing now waning,
Cafe under moon;
The poet recites from inside on a small corner stage. Coffee is served by an attractive waitress. Thanking her and sipping the hot beverage, I’m board and they’re late.
“Hey,” she said.
“How are you,” remembering she serves me regularly.
“Your sitting alone?” She asked.
“Waiting for some friends,” I stated.
“OK,” she responded, “It seems like your always waiting for someone.”
“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?”
“Who you waiting for?” continuing, but before I answer she’s called away to serve another.
A moth flutters from a tree, my conciseness follows.
Two lovers meet,
Beneath the dimming lights,
Between the two trees;
As I follow the flying messenger I saw her . . . Laughing and walking with mutual friends towards the table ware I sit by the swimming carp and under the tall potted trees. Kerry Heart pointed and waved to me, Biggs did the same. All three walked to the table, but my eyes followed the unknown woman.
They sat down, pulling out the steel chairs with friendly greetings and warm introductions for me and my desire.
“This is Sarah Klein,” said the fiery Kerry Heart with the multi blue and spiky hare, “Sarah, this is my good friend . . .”
We are blind to all others, dark eyes, olive skin, black and brown naturally curly hair to her breasts held by a black silk corset. A flowing dark dress fell to her feet. Here is your love sings in my mind.
Two hearts burn this night at the small cafe off the main street.