eiliadau
Posted: Thu Dec 03, 2020 7:04 pm
recitations & recollections.
Sunday mornings were Rhys’ favorite mornings.
When he was a child, Sunday mornings meant strangling in a secondhand suit and wilting beneath the apathetic glare of a stained glass deity. These days, decades later, he found his salvation between soft sheets, worshiping at the altar of the most benevolent god he had ever known. It was strange but pleasant.
Had he ever been a religious man?
He had been a romantic once, when armor gleamed and when love meant waging a war against the world—or against each other. Today, he found romance in smaller things: breaths traded like whispers in the dark; a glass passed from a wet hand to another with a towel, with laughter sweetening the air and the water running; playful chases and ecstatic shrieks and in kisses stolen beneath tree branches and street lights. He found it in timing his heart to the beating of another.
And he found love in harmonizing with the day: jazz playing softly in the background, almost overtaken by the persistent tapping of the rain; breath and smoke, a joint passed back and forth between them; soft curls sliding over his fingers, and the weight of his lover’s head resting upon his chest. Whispering words, and poetry, and songs.
Was there a way to capture this happiness and keep it forever, or was it too much like a butterfly, fragile and ephemeral?
“Tell me another, darling?” Dris whispered against his skin.
And Rhys did. This one, like the one before it, he pulled from his memory. He pitched his voice and drew music out of the pauses in between letters and punctuation, timing the rise and fall of the words to the metronome of his lover’s heart.
Sunday mornings were Rhys’ favorite mornings.
When he was a child, Sunday mornings meant strangling in a secondhand suit and wilting beneath the apathetic glare of a stained glass deity. These days, decades later, he found his salvation between soft sheets, worshiping at the altar of the most benevolent god he had ever known. It was strange but pleasant.
Had he ever been a religious man?
He had been a romantic once, when armor gleamed and when love meant waging a war against the world—or against each other. Today, he found romance in smaller things: breaths traded like whispers in the dark; a glass passed from a wet hand to another with a towel, with laughter sweetening the air and the water running; playful chases and ecstatic shrieks and in kisses stolen beneath tree branches and street lights. He found it in timing his heart to the beating of another.
And he found love in harmonizing with the day: jazz playing softly in the background, almost overtaken by the persistent tapping of the rain; breath and smoke, a joint passed back and forth between them; soft curls sliding over his fingers, and the weight of his lover’s head resting upon his chest. Whispering words, and poetry, and songs.
Was there a way to capture this happiness and keep it forever, or was it too much like a butterfly, fragile and ephemeral?
“Tell me another, darling?” Dris whispered against his skin.
And Rhys did. This one, like the one before it, he pulled from his memory. He pitched his voice and drew music out of the pauses in between letters and punctuation, timing the rise and fall of the words to the metronome of his lover’s heart.