All I have is what I imagined I had, back then, how hot it felt to the touch, yet I still needed to touch it, to feel, to scald myself, having never learned the lesson my grandmother tried to teach me, the searing pain of a stove the best lesson, while I always search out for the hottest spot to probe, learning to brace myself, making me always ache for more, time convincing me now how it really did not hurt as bad as I thought back then, recalling the best not the worst, the taste of the kiss, the press of flesh, the final and unbelievable outcome, causing both of us to sigh, all that now a memory of what was then, never accurate, distorted in a way that makes me want to still singe my fingers, to probe the depths of a stove I know will only bring me pain, and yet, pleasure as well, as if we accept one in order to get the other, later forced to heal the sound with a packet of ice, the deep chill still making it all seem sweet.
No comments:
Post a Comment