I remember sitting on a sand colored couch in a dorm, watching
as a boy with a beard as red as a ruby slowly but surely trace designs into my
skin
Circles that had no end
Circles that seemed to end too soon, but found sudden rebirth on my thighs
I remember watching as his worn hands made invisible art around my body, and thinking that I would be content in life just being a warm canvas of shapes and lines.
But, like the unpredictable circles that seemed to end with a suddenness that brought my breath to a halt, the boy with the ruby red beard lost interest in my canvas
Circles that had no end
Circles that seemed to end too soon, but found sudden rebirth on my thighs
I remember watching as his worn hands made invisible art around my body, and thinking that I would be content in life just being a warm canvas of shapes and lines.
But, like the unpredictable circles that seemed to end with a suddenness that brought my breath to a halt, the boy with the ruby red beard lost interest in my canvas
There were many other hands that found their way to the same spots he once occupied, not with caressing circles, but with tight gripped knuckles that felt so good, but lacked the warmth and geometry of the past
After nights of passion, I would find myself yearning for the shapes. Yearning for an existence as a piece of living art again
A handsome boy with a smile like the sun entered my world,
and merged with it
My tongue hesitated, not sure if I wanted to let go of my yearnings to him, to ask to be a canvas again
But words were not needed and slowly began to lose all meaning, as he started to retrace the shapes of others, bringing new life to incomplete circuits and circles
His fingers acted like tiny paint brushes, adding color to the circles that were once bland and surface
When he was done claiming areas once claimed by others, he slowly began to spread his artwork to places I never knew could be conquered
Small circles on my face and neck, and big overarching movements create resonating shapes on collar bones and back
My chest is his masterpiece, and my stomach is his magnum opus, and the warmth that I feel overcomes the works of all others who dare treaded before
He undoes me, and then recreates me multiple times over. Sometimes once a week. Sometimes multiple times in one day.
And the only protesting that will ever slip from me is if he were to stop
I hope he never does
My tongue hesitated, not sure if I wanted to let go of my yearnings to him, to ask to be a canvas again
But words were not needed and slowly began to lose all meaning, as he started to retrace the shapes of others, bringing new life to incomplete circuits and circles
His fingers acted like tiny paint brushes, adding color to the circles that were once bland and surface
When he was done claiming areas once claimed by others, he slowly began to spread his artwork to places I never knew could be conquered
Small circles on my face and neck, and big overarching movements create resonating shapes on collar bones and back
My chest is his masterpiece, and my stomach is his magnum opus, and the warmth that I feel overcomes the works of all others who dare treaded before
He undoes me, and then recreates me multiple times over. Sometimes once a week. Sometimes multiple times in one day.
And the only protesting that will ever slip from me is if he were to stop
I hope he never does
