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Spelt

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Spell me.

Yeah, you. You with the leather jacket. Spell me.

Butter soft, midnight black. Silver buckles all a'jangle as the bricks scrape my back and the rain slicks our skin and you flow. Into me.

Did you think of this, as you sat there, nursing a beer and looking all jaded? Did you think of me, as you watched me, holding onto the past and feeling all bitter? I was dancing. Remember? Just dancing. Just listening for the letters and my eyes were closed and it was you who took me into the rain.

Did you want this? Did you have a choice? Did I?

I don't remember you sitting at that table, a trio of darts cutting grooves into your palm, feathers tickling the back of your wrist and the needle-sharp ends pricking your fingers. I don't remember you. I don't. I was dancing, you see. Dancing. I was swaying and undulating and writhing to lyrics that were abusing the concept of irony so much it was becoming a criminal offence. Not that that mattered. Not that any of that--this--did--does.

Matter. Does it? Doesn't it?

Who cares, right? Who bloody cares.

Not you. Not I. Not us.

No matter. Let's dance.

Let's push and pull and scrape the bricks. I'll drag you closer and you'll thrust us together and when my nails scar your spine it'll be the most beautiful of sequels. We'll drown in the rain and breathe karmic bitterness. Saccharine sweetness and desirous disgust. We'll gasp and moan and tell ourselves it's a mistake. A never-should-be and never-would-have. Never but for now.

And for how long did you watch me? For forever? For an hour? Not that I care. Not that I noticed. My eyes were closed. Remember? I was DANCING. Dancing in the dark. Dancing blind. Dancing for you and, oh. What an encore. You only had to ask.

I only said yes.

Yes to your arms, framing my silhouette. Yes to your hands, kneading my ass. My mouth on your neck, my lips on your shoulder, my teeth on your ear. Is this lust? Is this love? Isn't this WRONG? A fuck-up so epic that it needs it's own timeline?

Before. Then. Now. After.

Where--when--where are we again?

No matter. We're still dancing.

Aren't we? Aren't I?

And isn't that your mouth, whispering curses in my ear? Isn't that your body, sliding against mine? My fingers in your hair, my legs around your waist, my breasts in your hands. So nice. So hot. So wet and so BAD. I've always been naughty, you've never been good, and isn't this nice?

I like your jacket. Black leather, silver buckles... and if I asked, would you spell me? Run your lips over mine and paint me an alphabet divine? A description, a disclaimer, a mandate to live by? A map, a direction, a way home in the rain? I've been lost for so long, you've never been found, and isn't this NICE?

With your tongue in my mouth, your thumb on my clit. My hands on your ass and my thighs around yours. Bricks and rain and flesh so sharp that we're flayed outside-in. See my skin, see my blood, see my heart... I've kept it hidden for so long--does it even live there still?

And I wonder--where's yours? And if I find it, can I keep it? Swap letters for flesh? I've offered worse, you've accepted less, and your vocabulary has always been so vast. Encompass me--I'll shelter you. In my arms, in my body, in the rain against the bricks and while we drown in the pleasure I'll spell it all out. Utter the letters that whisper your name.

When. Everyone. Seeks. Love. Except. You.

But why? I ask. Why is that you?

Because, you moan. Because.

And I'll whisper, spell me, as, aching, you reply.

Forever. Am. I. Tethered. Here.

And I will be spelt.



The End