Pocket Stone

She feels the lumps in the heart fall
she rose up in the back
She hears the scars scream out from outside
And she whispers sometimes about this
But the colors mix together to grey
And wake me up
Oh, when it comes down in your loving
Oh, well then baby its right
You say you think you are nothing
No one else will do it for you
Reach up and grab hold of the sunlight
When you are waiting for whats right
Youre holding on your heaven
Wont leave you, yeah...
And the colors mix together to grey
Wake me up, wake me up, wake me up
To grey.

I dreamed of him.

How long had I been on this journey? ... two forevers and a million times as many days and far more nights than memory would allow. I'd come so far and still felt so distant. The ache culminated with a fierceness, pounding in my chest. Now I was there, for a moment, for an ihn. The slither of my arms wrapped around him. The statue, still, immovable, immobile, ungiving. A patina of melocholy dripping away as I pressed kisses against the scars of his cheek. So tender, so poignant. My fingers slid over his flesh, caressing it in mine. Stark, motionless dance. The cool of my skin soothing the fire, dampening it. Igniting mine in glorious flames. My heart breaking open, accepting, infolding. Flesh molding around him and taking him within. So cold ... so cold, chilling and thrilling with every touch. Melting, melding, crumbling. I could feel the shards of granite beginning to break away, exposing the sinew beneath. Folding back the layers one by one. It was all so deliciously cruel. Tantalizingly smorgasbord feeling the beautiful blue trace every touch. Staining porcelain lavendar. His fever becoming mine. Pressing closer, wrapping around it like a cocoon, enveloping, heated chills racing through me. Sensitive, raw, tender. Breaths labor ... filling, brimming to the surface so laden with emotions. Cavernous echos of sweet nothings, whispers cried in agonizing clarity. Crushing grasps to glide in delicate grace. Lines of silvered white dancing beneath my touch, rippling, giving, healing. Crimsoned washes ran in blushed puddles. A balm, a salve ... magic potion oiling, gliding, glistening its way to recesses. Weeping into wounds. Gasping war against the inevitable. Scalding in overflow, shivering, shattering screams of silence. An arch to reach the new plateau, lifting, rising higher into a new realm then silencing for the last time. My fingers frozen in eternity ... sculpted. I broke open and he spilled out.

I dreamed of him and woke seizing in a breath.