Blog, Creative Non-Fiction, Kink

The Rest of Heaven was Blue

My brain is a fritzball made of static electricity and cotton balls. The world is built of molasses and wet blankets. Burn everything but the wood is damp.

You will be lightning and cotton candy again soon. The world maintains its pace, you are feeling inertia.

The sky is terrible.

I have never loved you more.

There are too many puzzle pieces and not enough pictures.

So we’ll draw and paint and bleed on canvas.

I like that. It sounds like the right level of desperate and chaos. There’s a storm brewing. Blood is thicker than water. It can’t wash away what we make. But the storm is coming. Contain the mess on canvas and dreamscapes. Sticky sweet. Blood and molasses and chocolate and honey.

I don’t know that the storm ever stops, heart.

No but it’s building. It needs to erupt. The pressure is unbalanced. I can’t tell if I’m making sense yet. Ethereal. Cloud shaped, which is to say, always shifting.

The rest of heaven was blue.

I still want to know what other colors heaven is.

All be black if you burn it.

Heaven is ashes, burning red; the rest of heaven was blue.

Heaven is fire, and cold blue logic.

This is the color of language, the shape of blood and the scent of fingertips.

And the coming storm and the silence between gasping breaths. We are so far apart we find the universe curves back onto itself and we’re pressed together so hard.

Your words are the wind, breathing through you and wrapping around to press against my back. My lips on your back. My hands on your lips. The space between our bodies is infinite, and there are black holes and stars and a swirling mass of colors that no one else can see. We touch nothing. We intertwine.

We find each other. We’re strangers so familiar we are wearing each other’s skin. Your voice in my head and my impulses propagating down your spine. We intertwine. At these edges, storms are free.

I am drinking your words, electrocuted liquid, satin strength, fused in vertebrae. Your touch is tempestuous. My heart is a pressure change. Clouds don’t break; this rain is ichor.

I can feel them down your throat, listening to the echo of the piston in your chest. Satin is rice paper next to your sinew, clouds would break like widows hearts against your integrity, your fire.

I breathe ashes and exhale fire. I coat your skin in the colors of heaven. We paint the sky with the breath of orgasms and burn with world with volcanic eyes.

The world is no longer molasses. Do you feel your senses waking up?

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