Overhead, my aura was arcing, aching, wanting him. It cascaded over to him, buzzing against his, electrifying him. I could feel him respond. His aura became warmer, more pointed in my direction, vibrating faster. I could feel it. His lips softened. Their lines became even more beautiful, with the little curve upwards on the ends, the fullness, the downward turn in the center, so graceful, so compelling. I felt mine softly purse towards his. They wanted to part, and I had to hold them back, consciously. I smelled a scent in the air, myself, my own desire. The tip of my tongue pressed against my teeth, slightly. Delicately pointed.
From behind me, my aura moved around the edges towards him, but the color was too dark. It was like having a caped vampire behind me starting to dramatically extend his arms, the shadows classic, before he enfolded me with great panache. My cheek itched. As I tried not to turn my head to look, my neck strained, and the vertebrae subluxed. Everything I am telepathically reporting to you just happened. It is only barely past tense. Just long enough for me to register and put into some context.
The context for this is my father. My father. It was the liquid way, the honey-like way he would keep the men away from me when they would start to take an interest. He had embedded himself. His cape of behavior had become mine. The electricity was being lost between me and the man in the rose garden.
His gaze fell back downward towards the rose bushes. He noticed one with petals starting to go brown and fingered it distractedly. The subtle sound of our frequencies humming together dropped a few notes.
Bah! Bah! Go away, darkness in my aura, you curtains of black velvet! I strutted off away from the man. There’s no point. No point in continuing. It’s over. There is no story, no dialogue, no character interaction, no romance, no kiss that turns into a fountain that carries us beyond the mundane world and into the filigree of heaven. Time is no longer stretched out: there is no future to stretch towards. This will happen every time.
It’s in my damn unconscious mind. My father put it there when he would slide his chair out, skidding it across the floor, making our vibrations stammer. He would lean back and laugh, put the cigar back in his mouth, and there would be no mention of why. Nothing had happened. But that was it. Nothing happened.
I smell the roses. Leaning down, into one’s face, I kiss it. Without thinking, I feel the powdery moistness against my lips. I let my mouth slide open, feel the wet insides of my lips against the petals, in the angles of them closest to the center as they stretch upwards redly I let the tiny tip of my pointed tongue touch up against them electrically, briefly, lightly, so the energy between us fires. We fountain out of the mundane world
Of separate structures, flower, body, tongue, saliva. At the conduit of the saliva
From living consciousness
To living consciousness the molecules jump, exchange, dance, play, and flow
Chemically, ionically, merging at the edges
The space in between the molecules like the sky
The patterns of tendencies, waves of concepts
Align and amplify, resonating harmonically
Made of love, finding their eternal madeness of love
Momentarily, and as the female draws out of the whole
Pulling backwards her face, her tip of her tongue
From that which is playing the role now separating
And calling itself a rose, the membrane-like surface
Draws in two directions, translucently, wrinkling up into folds
And she opens her eyes and the rose turns its attention towards her.
And they curtsey.
