This Lingering Maybe

I carry his voice on my skin.

Earlier, between a bath and the moon, my breasts perked to his words. “I’m yours.”

I left the tub, entered the bedroom. “Were you talking?”

“No,” he smiled, “just typing.”

I walked away, wondering if his fingers had spoken this lingering “Maybe…” stroking the small of my back.

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the wee notes…
– To read other installments, visit my Web Serials page. The tales are listed under Ink and Feels.
– I shared 2 paintings with friends on Facebook, and asked them which one they wanted me to write very short tales about. They chose the lady below, suggesting that there is something about her expression that made them (and me) want to know more about her.
– I will (very likely) shared a 55-word story every Thursday. I want to make this series of tales as interactive (and fun) as possible. So… you, my Wicked Luvs, get to choose 1 of 3 possible paths: 1) The voice she feels on her skin is produced by his thoughts/feelings. 2) She is imagining the voice. 3) The voice belongs to a character we’ve yet to meet.
– Written for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55.

Nude, by Shelle Kennedy

Let Me Love You Strange (or not at all)

“How ravished one could be without ever being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions.” ~ Lady Chatterley’s Lover

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I showed him the woman inside,
and gave him me—a wild story
of living sex and dirt and blood,
a poem inked in flesh and bone.

I told him I wanted to
dream words that inspire
tangible realities, and said,
“Ink no illusion you aren’t
willing (dying) to live.

Love me in ink, or not at all.
I am a poem in love—words
brewing normal inside out.
Let me love you strange,
relish in it (in us).”

I wanted him
in ink, hot and alive
inside flesh that burns
like love-drunk lust
trapped in shut lips.

I showed him I wanted
him (all of him) in ink,
or not at all.

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Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.

the visual poetry

and two more poem bits, here and here

Tempted into Wanting

“What matters in life is not what happens to you, but what you remember and how you remember it to tell the tale.” ~ Gabriel García Márquez

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You hid behind Sweet Dreams
and a smuggled Desire, waiting
for hearts to tempt into wanting.

My eyes often noticed your face,
but my mind couldn’t see you—
I was too young (for the world)
and you were all wrong for me.

But…

…once upon a summery night,
while exhausted and not thinking
right, I touched your Solitude…
The length of it startled all I was.
One Hundred Years all alone?
I thought, took, read you mine.

I’ve kept you close ever since,
always loving you
in word and ink, learning wild
desires and real sweet dreams.

You’ll never be lonely, my love,
words of you dance on my tongue,
feeding old blood into new ink.

You are loved.

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the wee notes…
– I read One Hundred Years of Solitude before I was a teenager. The book and I met at a beauty salon my mother frequented. The beautician had a rack full of serialized romance novels (Sweet Dreams, Silhouette, Desire) and enough out-of-date magazines to paper the Great Wall of China and thirteen midsize castles with very small windows.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, and to Poets United.


detail from the cover of
Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude
(Ilustraciones de Fabelo edition)
via