Tonight I am an amalgam of breathy sighs into a lover’s neck. I am the elegant curve of an arched back and proffered breasts. I am the startling sound of a flock of birds exploding from a bush. The taste of salt on a lover’s skin. I am the smell of ozone and the rumble of thunder as the horizon darkens. The feeling of thighs tightening around your hips. The rush of wind before a summer storm. The growl of a V8. The feeling of sliding into a cool pond of water when the summer heat stains the air gold. I am the feeling of teeth gently worrying at the skin of your neck. The burn of tequila fumes climbing up your throat. I am the feeling of fingertips sliding up bare thighs and the heated, thundering pulse that’s keeping count of how long it takes you to get there.
Take me for a ride tonight. Let’s disappear down endless stretches of highway, with nothing but the stars and the perfect sound of an engine tumbling us through the darkness. Your hand on the bare skin of my thigh and the racing of my heart. Your thumb tracing where I want your lips to go. The feeling of anticipation tightening my chest and the need to feel your hair tangle in my fingers. I need this and You tonight.
Tell Me a Story…. (words by Phenix-noire)
I love watching you create something from nothing. You slip from our bed before the sun has given serious thought to rising. You choose the edge of night, the insubstantial shadows of twilight, to slide your arms from their place around me, and ease yourself up to create worlds. I pretend to turn in my sleep as you settle yourself at your desk. The sheet falls away from my skin and for a second there, I feel the weight of your eyes on me, tracing my naked curves. My lips can’t help it, they curve in a sleepy smile at your gaze and my hips rise toward your invisible hands.
I have waited a lifetime for the kind of feeling you give me. I would wait a lifetime more, just for you. To listen to you type away and watch you from under my eyelashes: your brow furrowed, creating infinite worlds at the ends of your finger tips — this is perfection. Knowing that once you are done with today’s story, you will slide back into bed and wake me with the slow slide of your hand up my side and your lips to my shoulder. You will write another chapter in our story with your hands and lips and sighs, and then; in the soft light of morning, limbs and hands entwined, you will tell me a new story.
Before this morning, I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted another human being’s arms around me.
But then those arms slipped around me and all I wanted to do was rest. Stop the restless struggle and lay my head down against your chest, close my eyes, and listen to the stories your heartbeat would whisper. Somewhere in your arms, my scars burst open and ran clean. You are the first thing I’ve ever wanted for myself.
I’ve been raised a Giver; one who serves, giving without end. You are the first thing that ever made me selfish, that I can remember not wanting to share with anyone. I want all of you. I want to trace every line, learn every muscle, let my fingers graze every inch of skin. There’s a hush inside of me when I think of that - like the heavy sound the silence in a church makes. You make me wonder at the poetry my fingertips would leave on your skin. I wonder at the sounds that would spill from your throat. A guitar wire tightens and thrums in my gut at the thought of placing my lips against your throat and feeling those sounds.
The way your fingers cradled my head as you held me made me want to feel that for a lifetime, held safe against you. You never forget the first time you bring a ship to port. You are the first safe harbor I ever managed to sail into without needing a storm to get me there.
I woke up restless today. Like I had missed a bus, or passed some deadline that I didn’t know about. Last night wasn’t much better. I tossed and turned and dreamt of a million disjointed things. Unrelated things: an engine revving as I gun it down the freeway late at night, the sound of an appreciative male rumble (you know – the one you guys make in your chest when you like something we do…), a strong thunderstorm shaking the glass of my window, and the fiery taste of a shot of tequila etching its way down the back of my throat. Waking up, I didn’t know whether to be turned on or confused, to be honest.
Music is love in search of a word. Find the words.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this song. Write something about this song .
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
Prompt Response: (words by Phenix-Noire)
Night falls across the city. I see Her rise up - stainless and shimmering, as I take the freeway exit home. The sound of my wheels turning sends my thoughts to you - your face, your scent, your eyes when you thought it was all over.
There’s been a melody playing under each of our exchanges. I’ve missed it in the rush of our emotions. It’s risen like a wave, until finally - it has carried me away. I’ve fought it, twisting this way and that, running scared that this time would end like it has before.
And then it hit me: You are my Newton’s Third Law. I act on you and you act on me. Simultaneous swing and fall, rise and counter-swing. So no more running. No more twisting. Only surrendering to the fall, and in falling - rising once more.
Event Horizon (words by Phenix-Noire)
There are moments when you feel yourself reaching maximum potential - when the swirling miasma of energy that has been coruscating in your chest reaches that moment of critical mass where it is impossible to remain as you were. When the options are to either explode into change or be consumed in the inevitable process nonetheless. There is something to be said for choosing when the paroxysm takes you. Choosing when to stretch out your arms and let the ignition rise up over you, letting your transformation stain the sky for miles. Something amazing comes.
Chroma - Words by Phenix Noire
Watching the clouds blush as the Sun rises makes me think of love. The Sun lays its lips on the soft belly of the clouds and makes the blood rush to sensitive places. It makes me think of you. Us.
Your hands are so full of intent that each time you touch me I feel like you’ve written me a love letter on my skin. They speak without you even opening your mouth. Our language is made up of the whisper of brushing lips, soft exhalations of breath against a neck, and genuine affection traced onto skin by the pads of fingertips.
I had forgotten what it felt like to be loved. I had buried myself in my work and become successful because I avoided messy entanglements like Love. And then, You…
Petrichor (An Open Letter to my Soulmate) - words by Phenix Noire
Some people want success, money, power, and will stop at nothing till they get it. I’ve had people ask me what I want. I’ve always struggled to put it into words.
This. This is what I want. This is what I work tirelessly to achieve. It won’t be perfect, nor will it be easy but I have unfailing faith in that it will get here one day; and when it does, I’ll be ready to grab it with both hands.
So Soulmate - where ever you are, I’m waiting, working, dreaming. Hurry up and get here already, huh? The good times are waiting to roll….
Feet pounding out a rhythm on the blacktop. Sounding out a cadence that my heart knows so well. Dissolving into the night, becoming one of its shadows. I’m bleeding out my thoughts as I pass through the air, feeling the past slither off my skin, peeling off in opalescent shimmers, trailing me like a comet’s tail. Breath sliding in and out, effortlessly; muscles heating, feet keeping time with the beat of a wild heart. The city knows Me, I’m one of her nighttime secrets. I run her paths, dodging neon spotlights, and matching her heartbeat. I seek redemption and rebirth somewhere down her darkened alleys and shadowed streets. Mostly I just find enough peace to make it to another sunrise. I doesn’t matter - it’s all She can give and it’s enough for me.
"Rage, Rage against the dying of the light"
I am tired. I can’t rage anymore. I have fought hard my whole life. The same kind of fight that can be found in the heart of a wild Mustang being threatened with a bridle and a breaking. I’m exhausted. This fight isn’t for some temporary freedom. It makes no sense. I’m left feeling empty and wasted inside. Tasting the bitterness of a victory gone to ash in my mouth.
Why must everything in my life come down to how much heart I have? Why must everything be a god-damned fight. Why must I dig in and throw my shoulder against the overwhelming weight of “No” and gain inch by torturous inch - a “Yes”.
I’m so damned tired of fighting. Of scraping a victory from my torn and bloodied knees every time life knocks me down. I am angry that I’ve always had to grit my teeth and drop my head down and fuckingpush with all I have just to gain every little thing I’ve ever won for myself.
Damn it, I am tired and pushed to my almost-limits. If only life worked on the safe word system. My signale could fall with the barest whisper of sound, shattering the air around it like fractured glass; falling into that dark, pregnant pause right before everything stops.
You asked me once why my heart couldn’t belong completely to you. Your seafoam eyes searched mine in a moment of rare sincerity, your eyes were always green when you were riding the edge of emotion.
I don’t think I’d ever seen you crack open your hard exterior like that. You only did it when pushed to your limits, otherwise you’d maintain an icy distance from everyone - even me, the woman who supposedly shared your life.
I had shrugged back then, a fluid rising motion, hunching sinew and skin against a bitter truth; not really knowing how to explain that my heart knew you wouldn’t take care of it, even if my brain hadn’t made that jump yet. That’s not true - my head just didn’t want to acknowledge that it had to stop fighting the inevitable. Something in me knew that you weren’t where I was meant to end up.
That’s a chilling sentence to write, mostly because I realize as I push the keys a little too sharply into motion, listening to their staccato gunshot report as I type; that it’s a painful truth, one I’ve been hiding from myself for months, possibly years now. Even my fingers are angry with me for taking so long to figure it out. They chatter away, tapping I-told-you-so’s. It’s disappointing to realize that I’ve wasted all this time on something that, in the end, just slipped away.
Somewhere, deep down but rising fast - I feel the need for loving hands on my skin. Hands that will tenderly brush away the stains that have been marring my psyche after the water shakes them loose and makes them rise to the surface.
Stitches (words by Phenix-noire)
She always collected little threads and small pieces of shimmering fabric whenever they crossed her path. She was constantly picking things up and putting them in her pockets as she walked to work, back from the market, to the post office, or from returning a book to the library. Her pockets were always full of interesting things - brilliantly coloured threads, stones that looked like pieces of the sky, the occasional scrap of a wind-torn scarf, a small piece of bright glass, a bluebird’s feather, even spider silk woven by the spider outside the library door. They would all end up in jars and baskets that she kept in her sparse room. People always wondered at her jackdaw interest in bright things, simply writing her off as “Odd, that one …”
One night when the time felt right, she sat down at her sewing machine. The crescent moon began to make its climb up the sky, scattering bits of itself into her window and onto her floor as she sat and contemplated all the cast-offs that she’d painstakingly collected. She pulled all the scraps of torn cloth and little threads to her, letting them lie in brilliant abandon on her lap. She began stitching them together and slowly, miraculously; wings began to come together.
Aurora (words by Phenix-noire)
The older I get, the more I reflect that my ideas about growing up were so childish. They were made through the rose-colored glasses of expecting everything to be wonderful. If you had asked my 13 year old self what life would be like for me, her reply would have surely included a White Knight coming to carry her away to a shining ever-after. My white Knight came, he carried me away.
What that little idealist could never have anticipated was that ever-after didn’t last as long as we’d hoped it would. I say “we” because somewhere, deep down, I still want to believe in the dreams of my childhood. I want to have the white veil covering my face, I want to walk down the aisle to my Hero, my Champion. My eyes clinging to his during that moment - the moment when I know all my other moments in life will stem from. I want the happy house, smelling of fresh baked bread, surrounded in all my flowers, filled with the sound of laughing children and barking dogs, a large wooden table set with food and the feel of a soft kiss brushing my cheek. I want those dreams. I’m going to stop at nothing till I get them.
It’s been a long road. Happily-Ever-After came and went without me, while I stayed, naively hoping that it would return; but like a bird with a mended wing, Happily-Ever-After flew off to find another life to turn into a fairy tale. For a long time, my life has felt like a slog through a dark forest. I’ve been holding onto hope like it was my one tiny candle; burning bravely against the utter darkness, fighting off despair. I’ve put one foot in front of another, I’ve fought my way through brambles and mud, through poison ivy and tangles of branches. It’s been emotionally exhausting to find one more shred of hope as I moved forward, away from a life that might-have-been. There have been more times than I care to count where I just wanted to stop fighting, stop moving forward only to fall back, just give up.
I don’t know what’s kept me going. Perhaps, pure stubbornness? Maybe inner strength (although it makes me snort to think I’m strong). You either move forward in life or lay down and die. I’ve never been one to lay down so my only choice was to keep going, tears and all. I’m hoping my sunrise is coming. I’m hoping that the dawn approaches soon. I think I can see a brush of color staining my horizon, Oh God, please let it be a sunrise. I’ve waited a long time for the Sun. I’ve fought my way through endless night to watch it crest over the land and fall full on my face again. Here’s to hoping that dawn brings with it all the dreams my 13 year old self was so sure were coming. Here’s to Happily Ever After. Here’s to hope. Here’s to braving all on just the hope that happiness lies just a little further off…