The tide and its takers

Silent now as I find my balance. A moment of calm, standing barefoot in the sand. Then the tide comes in again in one long rush, taking me by surprise and sucking the ground out from under me, and suddenly I am swimming again, gasping, struggling just to keep my head above water, and at the same time smiling, embracing, wondering where it will take me this time…

Everyone knew, of course. That was how it started: a shared holding of breath as you entered the room. I was in business mode, capable and determined to remain so, but even so you caught me off balance. It was like I’d never looked at you before or realised or allowed myself to realise how beautiful you are, all the things I shouldn’t, couldn’t help wanting to think about rushing in with just your briefest of smiles.

Someone told me they’d told you: the old game of guessing if you knew that I knew, wondering if the next move was yours or mine. Then flickers, hints: comparing eye colours, or the moment when you walked in, an angel in white shirt and blue jeans, to take my breath away and leave me jealous all evening of anyone else who got a smile from you, drinking so as not to notice the blonde you stood next to at the bar. I'd expected a slow sort of intrigue, but you blew away all my subtleties, daring me to up my game. Your honesty caught us all off guard that night, laid itself bare, unimpeachable, and left a tantalising silence in the room as you took yourself off to bed. Dramatic exit at just the perfect moment. I didn’t have a clue what to say.

Touchdown for a while. Feel the silt at the bottom, accumulated layers of dead things and sand, bits of rock that the tide rubbed away. It is soft underfoot, almost solid in places, but soft, and when your feet sink in it’s hard to kick free. I always come back here sooner or later, when I get tired of swimming and need somewhere to rest, something to sink to, to let myself down. The tide stirs the mud, and I think I see faces, old sea-ghosts drifting in to tell me their tales. But now is not the time to sit and listen to mouths full of water making their mawkish laments for a sun that doesn’t reach them any more. Now is time to struggle and surface, find the sun for myself and write my own stories. This grey world will be here, dependable as the rain, however hard I try to forget and however many times I leave it behind. But its hold on me is broken, the rope of a shipwreck frayed by time. To think I spent so much of my life here, before I learnt to swim.

And then everything sharpened into intensity. Every hour had its little revelations and conclusions and indecisions. Every moment could bring something to send me flying or bring me toppling down again, muttering ghost-words of a thousand endeavours that failed before they were even begun. Hardly daring to breathe I kept an eye on your every move, waiting my turn and playing by inches, praying for patience and trying not to give the game away.

Another wave: that bruise on your arm and how much I wanted to kiss it; trading philosophies and drinking tea til 3am; going to bed dazzled, talking to you in my sleep and waking up eager to see you at breakfast. And then that smile as you walked away, that backward glance that read like a confession, a concession, something precious now in my memory locked. It was a gift, all in that moment: the best gift you could have given me.

Respite at last, just as I was thinking I would never find it. Amidst the waves I see you there, looking out over the water, standing still. You hold out a hand, catch an arm worn out with swimming, and smile at me as my feet find solid ground. A shelf of rock hidden just under the surface. Somewhere just to pause and be. It is small, narrow, difficult to share. Easy to lose your footing. But there, indisputably, and not so hard to find again once you know about it. Trusting myself to it, and you, I stand at your side and listen as you tell me the tale of your own swimming, of all the times you thought you would drown, all the things you saw at the bottom and where you drew the strength from to surface again. I listen, humbled, holding your hand, and wish for more wishes, more time to listen to the tale of you.

One weekend made to count for so many. Kissing you was like a breath of fresh air. Fragments of poetry spring to mind.

This ecstasy doth unperplex…

Absent from thee I languish still…

And aphorism too: philosophy for the rainy days spent hiding under blankets on your sofa. The clouds will disperse just as surely as they will gather. Sometimes life can be blue skies. We will not always have to swim just to stay above water. Sometimes our feet will touch the ground.

Poetry again, breathed in a whisper.

Come live with me, and be my love

Safe word

A warning shot
As stormclouds gather
Rain on the windows
Time to play

Take my time
To rip you open
No time for comfort
Not today

There is no love here
No love to lose
Just skin to scar
And hearts to bruise
So pretty boy lay down
Way to screw my karma
I'm waiting for the dark to cover me

Cold in here
Alone together
I taste your sweat
And smell your terror

Kiss your neck
And feel you shudder
Feel you offer up
Good little boy

There is no safe word
Here in my head
I hold you down
You hold your breath
So pretty boy cry for me
Way to rouse my demons
I'm waiting for them to take over me

There is no beauty
Now passion is gone
You find the door
I sleep alone
So pretty boy run away
Way to waste an evening
I'm waiting for the earth to swallow me

And this is not the way it should have been...

Tiptoeing

Fingers crossed
You keep leaving me breathless
Falling over myself
Just to follow your light

Tiptoe in
And testing the water
Waiting for the honour
To kiss you goodnight