Life is about to change. It’s rising through my chest and throat with every drumbeat, and can’t be stopped. This naked skin is sticky with honey, and in bed with nothing but these pages, my lips and lungs move just waiting for your amber tongue. Things are happening and I can feel it in my veins. You press my body, hold my limbs with those fingers and that mouth, that mouth that has sworn, promised and lied over and over. Rinse and repeat. All the same, my desires are schizophrenic – to be content and still moving. I would crease the spine of your book until it was covered in lines, I would leave red wine footprints all over your souls dirty floor. I would pull back your curtains, open your windows, and let the neighbourhood see my bloody devotion. Let them see our whiskey stained pages. I’ll read our story, drunken and bruised.
You are the iceberg,
I am the ship.
[Buy This Boat We Call Love.]
Léa (Lay-ah, not Lee-ah!) writes for us about Cairns project The Medics before jettisoning across the seas to Europe. She might write about her days in between living them at Wanderlust/Wonderlust. We wish her good health, love, and smiles slicked with sun, rain, and wind.