. . . a little twist on the theme of love
First love is always best.
First kiss, the one rooted in hunger.
First soft-as-an-eyelash touch, fingers reaching for nothing more
than what’s within their reach.
First taste of comfort, a mother’s flesh.
Baby steps are the bravest, even if they take time.
Big leaps take some hedging, even if they bank on trust.
A daughter’s voice, tears, a broken ankle.
A broken heart would be no worse.
The comfort of words gets you only so far when you’re so far away.
Time hardens, time heals. Slips away.
Memory is steadfast.
First steps after falling are always hardest,
One foot in front of the other coaxed along
by lingering traces of first love.
Self Love
No one will ever love me the way I love myself.
I close my eyes, spider woman today, feathery feet like fingers weaving a story across and under my skin, no real beginning or end, ‘round and ‘round they go, up and down. In and out.
Out and in, down and up, light-as-a-feather fingers swirl across the spider veins of my breasts, nipples sweeter than any Hershey’s kiss. Come, have a taste.
All it takes is the flutter of your tongue, unseen except for the way I see it. Gentle swirls, a dervish’s dance. Nothing so sweet, so inviting, as the smell of sweat to a spider.
No one will ever see me the way I see you watch me.
I close my eyes, picture yours fixed on my Botticelli body, look and I’ll do the touching, Venus unfurling. Your peek-a-boo private dancer pulled this way and that, fingers fanning out along her arms, her chest, her belly, her lips, strumming here and there. Everywhere. Come, pull away the sheet, watch as I poke at traces of fishnet pulsating with each rise, each fall, thrumming across my thighs. All it takes is the pitch of your voice, unheard except for the way I hear it. A coo. A refrain. A whistle of a smile cast on the prettiest little parlor you ever did spy.
Photo copyright ©Abe Frajndlich. Visit his website to view more of his wonderful work.
