We sit naked in the meadow, my desire and I, aching to touch everything under the sky. She spreads across my skin like honey and transmutes sunlight to dessert.
“It has been a while since we sat together.”
“I know,” she murmurs. “I’ve missed you.”
Th(more)e wasps know too. They busy themselves in small flowers near me, always inching closer.
A yellow butterfly crosses the meadow, drawing shapes in the air according to butterfly logic. Up, down, around, down, around, up: a dance my feet will never know. Fascination stirs my heart.
“Bring him here,” I say.
“Be patient,” my desire replies.
So we wait. Up, up, around, left, down, up, around. At times he draws near and I hold my breath, knowing my only seductions are stillness and sugared sunlight. At times he moves behind me and the skin on my back tingles in anticipation of feeling the caress of butterfly feet, the touch of a butterfly tongue. But it doesn’t come. He rounds the meadow and leaves: up, down, down, around, away.
“Maybe next time,” my desire says. She wraps herself around me even more warmly. I remember to breathe. Leaves shimmy on branches and birds chirp as if they had forgotten their songs until just now. The wasps continue their gentle approach, and the sunlight still tastes sweet.
"Maybe," I say. "But maybe not."
My chest and arms and stomach and pelvis and legs throb with the beat of life, and sun, and longing in a way they haven't done in some time. And I know why. She's draped across my being like a fine cut of silk, enhancing each sensation.
"It's okay because you're still here," I whisper to my desire. "I've missed you, too." (less)