Hovering over my body in bed, our clothes scattered on the floor, you place your forehead upon my stomach ever so gently with your eyes closed. I wait for your mouth to offer kisses, but it doesn’t.
There, at that spot, you linger like a statue, looking so peaceful I dare not move, dare not breathe too loudly so as not to break whatever trance you’re in. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, at the dust particles in the air that only appear when a warm ray of light streaks across it.
It’s strange, but I am reminded of the three o’clock prayer. You know, the one they used to play on TV every afternoon when we were kids? The sudden silence. The subtle slowing down of time it brings. I wonder, Is this what they mean by holy? When they say ‘devotion,’ is it you and me, like this?
Once, early on, you used the term ‘making love,’ and I made a face.
“What would you call it then?” you asked.
You didn’t like my answer.
Lying there, I feel a strong urge to admit that I’m wrong and you’re right. Of course, you’re right! This is how love is made. In the way I stay still, even though, from this angle, it’d be so easy for you to kill me. Don’t they say that the stomach is the most vulnerable part of the body? That’s why, when dogs show adoration, they offer you their bellies.
Well, here, have the weakest part of me. Do with it what you will. I promise, I’ll try not to run, not to downplay or dismiss the feeling, even if I have to do it through gritted teeth. If what it takes for you to know me is to hand you the power to hurt me, then have at it. It’s yours. It’s yours. It’s yours.
wow. i love this. and the afternoon prayer, it's been a long time since that revisited my mind! your words transported me back in time. felt the sanctity of reading this 🤍
Beautiful writing <3