Just a little taste, just once. This kind of unruliness wouldn’t turn into an on-going occurrence, a habit, goodness no, it’s far too hazardess for that, but just once, just a taste. Lean in, feel the warmth of his aura, lean in further, feel the proximity of that just one taste coming closer and closer until finally I melt into oblivion, and the world doesn’t exist anymore.
My moist lips touch his and there we are, together, just one taste. I never meant for this to culminate in this way, but it has, and I can’t say I regret it. Just one taste happens to be so sweet I realize how a diabetic feels. I am a diabetic, I understand, for I have held back from the delightfulness of touch and tenderness, giving myself shots of insulin in the form of shows, movies and books. They supply me with small dosages of hope that amour will find me eventually and then also an intangible mollusc of a love tale to quench my thirst.
I longed for it to my deepest core, ignored it, quelled it, but no more. Here I am, just one taste, and I realise that no flimsy concoction made up by pop-culture-pandering authors can ever replace the real fix. Hold his face, his neck, his shoulders, his back, weave my fingers through his black hair, dare to open my eyes for one second to see that I am just one taste too, hoping to see his flecked green-yellow eyes. We are one, moving with an energy that has existed for as long as the universe. Goosebumps run down my arms, and
I pull back. I am graced by the gaze of those wild eyes, and I realise that just one taste will never be enough. Never.
I am suddenly terrified. Spasms of anxiety stab through my abdomen as if a blind Fear is aiming for my heart, missing, and then having another go. Something deep, deep down within me is twitching in angst, something that believes that to reveal the gold hidden beneath the dust would surely destroy me, destroy who I have built my Self to be in the depths of the earth; We live in the era of silver, and gold is a fool’s filling. It is too magnificent you see. I sometimes even scorn it for the sore, slow chafing of loneliness it brings, though I know the abrasions to be a powerful moulding in the essence of my being. I see the wonder behind the blue eyes of the Greek god as he smiles mischievously at his earthy goddess, two intertwined existences ascended by their courage to be. To my true nature I feel gladness for them, but in pockets of what is not me, I despise them for their brave prosperity. Coward, the Voice mutters under its breath. How can I be so distraught by the thought of sharing my heart if I am daring to exist? Of what am I so fearful?
I am afraid of my own sultriness, I realize. I am afraid that if anyone came too close, they would find out that in fact, I am a wild soul. My untamed essentia is bold and unabashed, and though I know she is there, I don’t know how to let her out; Is the veil between us an illusion? Have I been her, and me, all of me, this entire time? I am not in compartments. This ‘barbarian vivacity’ is part of my whole. I am whole; Do I dare venture a step further? Is the veil between myself and everyone else merely a fallacy? In that moment
I shed the near-transparent, yet shrouding cloak that I thought was purely for decoration, and like a Lady of Baghdad, I peak from underneath my coverlet and smile warmly, mischievously, at the gold path shimmering before me. How wondrous it is, to see it finally.