It was morning. Light blue light cascaded in a light spew across the sky. Closer to the horizon, the sky was pink and orange; the images of cat throw up. It was miraculous. The trees stood green, high, flitting, in the breezes that brushed past. And from what of the road I saw, sat like a very tiresome gray, cracked snake in the center of the grass.
I had woken up. I sat there, looking out of our window, seeing the industrialized haven of God's Creation. A few townhomes loomed in shades of gray and pink as the sun woke up before them in their valley of earth. In their slow, not-so-very-deep gully. It was marvelous. It was thirsty.
My hair was resting down my spine in the curve of my arched sitting position. I looked at my legs crossed in front of me. My feet were bare. I didn't like that. My toes were painted. Gun metal gray. The skin was soft.
I looked into my eyes through the mirror. That mirror has seen so many things. Passionate love it has seen. Grip of skin, sliver of fingertips, curvature of spine. Wetted lips, shimmering eyes, and a pale, pale skin. It has seen the pumping of veins, the thrilling burst of hearts, the music of fabric slipping away like time. And seeing could mean hearing; the crush of breath, the tender slide of skin to skin. The ripe voices of man, and the shrill cries of woman. Thick, loving moments of lips, and thin goings of seconds where the demand, "Let me see your eyes, my love. I want to see your soul while you let it hit me." has let a fiery charge of connection buzz like some busted lights. The scratch of nails bursting into spinal tissue, and the cry when teeth meet the female flesh at the throat. Only in love do they do this. This is what the mirror sees.
And I see him, bearing the marks I left and the remnants of millions of inked needle marks in his back. I gaze as he sleeps, back to the sky. It almost makes me feel bad. His flesh is so weak, tender from those piercing needles with black liquid, and I bore into him like I hadn't knew. I hadn't thought. While losing my air and very whim, my body soaking up his, my fingernails let blood shed. There were still trails, and now black spots that used to be ruby red, in the shape of crescent moon drags. He wouldn't tell me my hands were murdering him. Something in him wouldn't let it happen. The ink had fellow marks lacing it. Mine.
I got up and slid into the bathroom. I slipped off the cover I wore-a fine silk- and stared at my naked torso.
I was not without my own plumes of passion. The curved hoop-like rings that slid through my nipples were missing a spike on my left side. There were slight claw marks on my ribs; perfectly spaced for large hands. My hip bones wore busted blood that rushed to my skin's surface, but didn't have an opening to froth through. They were a greenish color in fact. The ugly crayon. My back had some more nail racking, but it was on my neck I liked.
I truly ADORED it. I felt once more like a Queen again. Like a vampire queen feasted upon by her King. His powerful movements, easy with grace. Resting over her, her nerves bursting and exploding everywhere. So close he was to her. His breath in her ear. It made her giggle. It always did. Breath in her ear, making her skin rise and making the microscopic hairs stand up. Then, the lurch. The shrill cry, the second's worth of oxygen drew back over her voice box in an aware call. He feasted at her tender,soft, beautiful throat. Oh, how soft. Her hair fell amongst his eyelashes, but they were closed, sensing her thoughts.
Desire and disaster.
She was dancing with death.
Metallic ruby gold flowed past his teeth, flirted with his tongue, and walked like ghosts down his esophagus. He loved doing this to her. Loved her heartbeat against his lips, and the essence of life trickling across his lips, more than he thought he would. It was rare he excited this action; she spoke of this, but he was wary to try. Now, since he was a very special man, a time-observant man, he exerted his force in a moment of entertainment to his Queen's favorites. He felt more connected to her now than ever, having her life in him. He let off her skin with the pop of his lips, and the gasp of minutes without air.
This is what happened to the Queen in the black-blue hues of stardom.
I am the Queen.
He stirred on the bed, the King's bed, and I felt his presence bloom like a flower in light. The word 'Dusk' came to mind. I peered my head to look at him through the doorway as he turned over and sat on his elbows, looking for, then at me. Sunlight played with his hair and chest. It made a halo around his head of basically brown locks. I'm happy he let it grow some.
"Good morning my darling." He said, a smirk on his face. He saw my body, tenderly touching me with his loving-and humored-stare. I bore no cover against him in bare light. I saw what I have seen.
Pleasantries. I kept having these thoughts in my mind. Dusk and pleasantries.
"Tonight I was thinking we go to the festival." He said.
"The one to celebrate Dia de Los Muertos?"
"Yes."
"When?" I asked.
"Dusk."
Dusk. There's the connection.
"Okay." I responded.
His stare teased his smile. "We'll need to prepare ourselves though. Dress to our most delightful, make a trip to the special effects stores in town today. Make ourselves up."
Pleasantries. This was the meaning.
"I can agree." I said, coming over to him and lifting one leg over him, and bending at my knees to rest over him.
"And you do?" He asked, taking my right hand and making slow, purposeful work of kissing my hand, my fingers, my knuckles.
"Yes, I do."
"It's a plan then, my Queen."
Who bears her marks oh so delighted.
