Just Let Me Look For A While
Just let me look for a while. The longer I can look, the less likely I am to touch. And you don’t want me touching. Despite my gentle intention, my delicate need, hands that want to caress will curl into claws that hook and squeeze. Fists tight around that lovely pulse that flutters and quivers against my palms. The bird in your throat striving to fly away from me.
I can be as harmless as you’d like, if you’d only let me look. Let me set up my mind’s easel and paint you, golden against the backdrop of my inner world. I’ll hold my finger out before me like a paintbrush and measure the distance from brow to nose, the angle from cheekbone to cheekbone. The air between us will saturate with colour and sparkle and I will imprint you on my inner eyelids. A stain to seduce my memory, every time I close my eyes.
That’s really all I need, all I’ve ever wanted. A voyeur at heart. You have to believe that. If you’d only let me look my fill, sit quietly and still, don’t cover your nakedness, then you’ll be able to leave. Once you’ve filled me up, sated the hunger, I’ll drop to my knees before you, weak as a new born. And then I’ll lie, curled and damp and boneless. Beyond words. Then you can leave.
Or stay if you’d rather.
Try not to shake so much. The trembling stirs me in a way you wouldn’t like. Distracts me from the purity of my visual plundering. The way your hair settles and resettles with every shudder. Each individual strand capturing the light. Enslaving it. Those droplets of sweat jewelling your upper lip. That twitch in your thighs, parting them minutely and sealing them closed again. I only want to look. I mustn’t touch.
I can smell your skin from here. You smell of temptation. Teasing with that hair those eyes that face so earnest with your breasts dancing casting shadows and those long long lines from hip to foot such a magnificent sweep of flesh all shimmering all teasing you know what you’re doing you won’t keep still you know what you have to do but you won’t keep still how can I keep my side of the bargain if you don’t keep yours?
Carly Holmes is a novelist and short story writer who lives and works on the west coast of Wales. Her debut novel, The Scrapbook, was released through Parthian in May 2014 and her short stories have been published in a wide range of journals and anthologies. Carly is co-editor of the Lampeter Review and also manages and hosts The Cellar Bards, a group of writers who meet monthly for an evening of spoken word.