Wednesday, 28 November 2012

The Lift

Standing beside me, upright yet relaxed, within the confines of the lift. Pressed against the wall by the bodies of others in the moving box, not that I notice them, grateful as I am for this small stretch of time when he is right beside me. I am acutely aware of the space he occupies, the contours of his body, the places where our skin might touch if I just shuffled a little more to the right, leant a little in his direction. 

Every day I see him, he looks more beautiful. It isn't love, never will be, but a highly concentrated, deliciously intoxicating desire.

His lips so full, that strong chin, and the vulnerable lilt under his deep story teller voice. A chuckle so fine, a rising delight from the centre of his chest. 

I watched him play his double bass in a concert recently, it was a mistake, made me overwhelmed with erotic notions of being in his capable arms, with those clever fingers, so knowledgeable, able to elicit such sounds from the instrument, making their way over my skin, playing me, in the same captivating way. I long just to touch those hands, put mine within them, as I have when I have danced with him. The way he commands such a large instrument, his chosen for its gorgeous deep red colouring, so easily for such lengths of time, is admirable. It is a show of fine strength. How many hours must he have practiced. I want to kiss those fingers that have worked so precisely for so long. 

The lion star sign. I see this shining in him, a confident leader. His stately and old fashioned  manner, wrapped in a clever and joyous humour, one based on the anomalies evident in every day living, or silliness, rather than sarcasm, or criticism veiled as a joke. His sensitivity disarms me. I have told him too much at times. 

How I envy the young beauty out there in the world that will win his heart. Not so much that I would want to prevent him from finding her, because he deserves to be loved by a fine soul. 

And I'm still comfortable to just enjoy the curiosity and the desire his presence arouses in me. A daily fantasy to keep me company while I heal my own sweet soul, depleted after long battles. 

And I do think about other things besides the sensuality of men's bodies, but it pleases me most to write of beautiful men, and of emotions and desire, rather than political or social issues, which others address with more adeptness than I ever could. 

What little stolen moment will tomorrow bring me that I can mythologize in my mind in the darker hours? 

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