city east writing retreat #2

she goes like honey towards the bees she goes like nectar towards the birds she goes like a vixen towards his hands she goes she goes she goes and she'll never stop seeking seeking in the city or the suburb they've shared unwittingly for so long just one bus stop apart although he tends to walk to the other route the one that doesn't wind so slapdash towards town like hers does she takes all the best and worst of herself and sends it via express post to his door and he just smiles in that bemused way just short of beaming his true gratitude at being remembered she can fast-track his pleasure like nobody else the benefit of those years once seen as wasted now proving useful and she kneels upon the ponyskin and she says oh that was quick and he says oh that's embarrassing and she shakes her head knowing it's her fault if there is indeed any blame to be placed at all anyhow and she walks slowly back home it should only take nine minutes but her contentment spins it into thirteen and two cigarettes and a pause under the gum at the corner where you can just see the ocean in the daylight but it's half past one and she should get to bed she should really be getting to bed but she's imagining him sleeping at last spectacles languishing on a bedside table full of forgotten mugs and magazines and birthday wishes beeping insistent on a phone abandoned for a precious few hours before the familiar starched apron is once again donned and the glasses polished with green and white tea-towels and cutlery checked before being placed on tables for four for two for the couple who do the weekly quiz same bat time same bat place over a bottle of wine and the best bread butter taken out an hour before service so it's not cold because he must only have the best he is at the pinnacle of his profession born out of his time he should have been a concierge in europe or a royal consort instead he lies down with this queen of the demi-monde wets his wick with gypsy tears and she has cast so many spells with her melodies that she can't remember when it started only that he's always been there like a birthmark carried by flesh holding on through innumerable sheddings and excoriating violences performed upon her while she refused to break she was always whole but they wanted her to be holes only and the tendons scream nightly she soothes them the only way she knows how with thoughts of death and it works even if it's not healthy she doesn't care nobody needs to know but he knows knows she struggles daily with the temptation of the abyss and he lets her step back from the edge all by herself she doesn't need his help only his embrace when she has made it back it is a prize above rubies to see those espresso eyes reflecting her rainforest ones no more harm no hurting but the pain she chooses no more wasted saltwater for the ones too scared of witches to be worthy of her sacrifice for she can only worship completely or not at all and he has always waited that patience like a thorn she drove into her thigh willingly as a child just to know what exquisite suffering felt like she still presents her thigh for atonement at his hands but he never rents the flesh only moulds it sculptor hands hands made for violin hands made to hold her steady on the way home hands made for grasping when the spectres threaten unexpectedly and he is the only one who sees beyond her masks so carefully crafted they will never defy him he will deny her any futile posturing he knows all about stage lighting and sleight of heart she can't fool this one nor he her she sees right through his kaleidoscope of veils to the peach tasting beyond of him far out over the waves she was always a siren calling for him in tones only he could hear maybe it's because he can read music and she can see colours in chords so they swim down side by side deeper until they reach a safe haven