HEART SHIMMER SEVEN

EXCERPT FROM MY WORKING NOVEL HEART SHIMMER SEVEN, JOB SEES AND DESCRIBES HIS FIRST TRUE LOVE

This body has been dead, until now, its never felt the light of the moon, flowing like this, away from my skin, dripping on the ground.

I am running after her, like I did when I first learned how, stumbling on these new legs to catch a glimpse of her figure, bare reflection of the night sky, sparkling with blue and green and red and white stars, and her mouth full of moonlight, casting a path she walks.

I would follow her, I know, where my body cannot.

I feel her tidal pull on my liquid, as I follow in her darkness; what night is concerned with the feet of men, turgid with light.

I hope the longer I look, my eyes will be etched with her outline, empty for her voice to fill and dance in, until she is pouring from my pores, and from my eyes like rain, and from my mouth like cracking rocks.

I wish I would burst, in a shower of spit and gleam.

I wish she would catch me by the eyes, across the space filled with wood and thorns, that through this transfusion, I would feel her from the inside, and sense her desire, in the wetting of her lids, the lushing of her lips, the tracing of her tongue.

There is no lust like that for a soul.

Like Eve, my hand is outstretched to touch the red hiding in the tree, tracing this desire with my man hand, I long to be one again.

She stops at the pool of moonlight and lets it fall from her, back where it came from. She has become darker than the night, silhouetted against the dull blue, and then she walked on the water, never touching the ground.

I feel animal. My human skin all pulled away. I cannot even tell myself what this feeling is. I feel like I could grab a tree by its branches and pull it down, and let my muscles release this frustration. I want to be water, a softening mist, mixing with her sweat, a crashing wave, pulling her to my chest, but I feel the edges of a river, giving me forward motion, guiding me, and I am afraid of the waterfall, so I grasp at the grass, and the lapping doe’s, I escape little by little, into the roots holding out their fingers, but most of me will go across the line, to the lowerside.