You were there, in an old friend's house, a sabre of a man among a room full of overstuffed chairs and gem-colored pillows. On all fours, you were crawling over the wood floorboards, picking up small pieces of dust and placing them tenderly in a pouch strung around your neck. Your hands were black, and you told me the story of every bit of dust: "This one has seen more moons than any man alive, Queen." "And this one hails all the way from the Edge, carried here on the back of a brave little sparrow." "This one has war wounds, you see, there? So many tales to tell and no voice loud enough to be heard..."
A wind came whispering down the hallway, disturbing nothing but your mop of jet black hair. You were coaled to the elbows by the time you finished, smiling and slick with sweat. I laughed and told you to shower, but you came to me, gliding across the floor, and snaked your arms around my waist. I could smell the salt of you, and dust, but when you kissed me, your tongue was like honey in my mouth. We melted. Your shirt was off, your body steaming in the air. Your teeth found my ears, neck, breasts. We made love against moss-colored paint, our bodies leaving sweet, sticky imprints on the wall. You knelt and laced your arms around my thighs, looking up at me as I touched you gently on each shoulder. After you traced some shape into my belly, you engulfed me.
When we finished, you stared at me, your hands still warm, roaming. I tried to say something, but only an empty breeze came out my open mouth. You watched my neck intently, dirty and smudged from the black of your hands. "Windthroat," you said softly, eyeing me with a grin. You walked to the bathroom and began filling the tub. When I came in, you were already laying in the water, which was emitting a brilliant, golden light. The small room filled with it, and was thick with syrupy clouds of heat. Your eyes were closed, black lashes beaded with water. Even through the gold, your skin glowed milky white.
I watched you for a long time, the tears lost in the dew on my face. I wept, realizing we were too young to know such magic forever.
A wind came whispering down the hallway, disturbing nothing but your mop of jet black hair. You were coaled to the elbows by the time you finished, smiling and slick with sweat. I laughed and told you to shower, but you came to me, gliding across the floor, and snaked your arms around my waist. I could smell the salt of you, and dust, but when you kissed me, your tongue was like honey in my mouth. We melted. Your shirt was off, your body steaming in the air. Your teeth found my ears, neck, breasts. We made love against moss-colored paint, our bodies leaving sweet, sticky imprints on the wall. You knelt and laced your arms around my thighs, looking up at me as I touched you gently on each shoulder. After you traced some shape into my belly, you engulfed me.
When we finished, you stared at me, your hands still warm, roaming. I tried to say something, but only an empty breeze came out my open mouth. You watched my neck intently, dirty and smudged from the black of your hands. "Windthroat," you said softly, eyeing me with a grin. You walked to the bathroom and began filling the tub. When I came in, you were already laying in the water, which was emitting a brilliant, golden light. The small room filled with it, and was thick with syrupy clouds of heat. Your eyes were closed, black lashes beaded with water. Even through the gold, your skin glowed milky white.
I watched you for a long time, the tears lost in the dew on my face. I wept, realizing we were too young to know such magic forever.
