What does the body remember of another? What memory sits at the tip of the tongue, ready to burst? Does desire constantly swim in the veins, little pieces of longing that warm the blood and rise to the surface at the slightest provocation? Do they reconstruct and orient the desire toward that which we cannot forget? Is remembering merely the act of desire trying to make itself whole again?
You, so defined by absence, are always present in this. The ritual of it, fingers sliding down over the belly, the pretence of hesitation – it is all an invitation. I close my eyes, and my fingers draw you out of the darkness in a steady rhythm, until you appear. It is early morning now. Outside there are clarion skies. The light sits on the tip of my tongue, I press it against my teeth, and it bursts in my mouth with a sudden yellow. The glow intensifies, and now I taste the colour orange. It rolls across my tongue, the flavour of unfettered sunlight, filling my mouth with a burnt sweetness.
As I arch my back, vivid green bolts down my spine. The light behind my eyes changes, I am soaked in the deep wine of cool, hard precision, the focus of breath and blood and nerve. Water fills my ears, it spills over and soaks my skin. There is salt on my lip, and I try to lock in on those slate eyes, but I am holding on to something that wants me to let go.
I lose you in a fusion of colour, I am incandescent, and I cry out your name in the white-hot glow. You disappear behind my eyes, and the world goes back to black.
I have to keep my eyes squeezed shut to stop the tears. This is all that has survived, and the sadness that settles over me breaks apart my still pounding heart.
The desire has not waned, no matter how many pages have turned.