by William Crimson
- I’ve lost my connection to the world—no Internet. All I have are hotspots for the next week. If you comment, I won’t know it until I find another hotspot. So I wrote this in a café as quick as I could — 20 minutes. It’s inspired by Rougedmount, but is really inspired by anyone who’s thought life is too short. May there be many lifetimes, surely each with their disappointments, but also each with new loves and new experiences. I know I’ve been here before and will be again.
If it were raining, and if it were another lifetime, then I would take you outside. I might not remember why: Perhaps I loved a woman, in another lifetime,who didn’t love the rain; and you, perhaps, loved a man who closed the windows and the doors. But there’s always a longed-for experience, we missed in one lifetime, that brings us back to the next.
Will it be a summer shower?
I won’t remember why, but you’ll look especially beautiful to me, and the dark clouds and the rain on the leaves will be especially beautiful. Perhaps you will wear a burgundy dress and a blue hempen top and your dress will cling to your hips and the water will confess your breasts and delight your nipples.
How beautiful you’ll be.
Your hair will cling to your neck and your ears will slip between the strands. I’ll nibble your ears. I’ll tease your nipples. I’ll press my palm at the V of your legs. We’ll open our mouths and drink the rain as it falls. I’ll take out into the open field. A woman deserves to be loved in the rain; loved for the beauty of the rain in her clothes. I’ll take you out into the long grasses.
I’ll take off your clothes.
I’ll sip the droplets at your nipples. I’ll taste your spine. I’ll bite the beads at your hips. I’ll lick the sluice between your thighs. I’ll mount you in the open field. I’ll mount you under the heavy clouds so you can feel the rain on your shoulders. I’ll mount you from behind so the rain pools at the turn of your spine, so the earth loams between your fingers, so your knees and thighs are earthy and pungent. My fingers will mark you, soil your hips and nipples, and your flanks with grass seed, and the wheat’s feathery tufts, and the slipping tongues and parchment of the wildflowers—red, yellow and purple. And I’ll mount you so your dripping hair trails forth and back in the mud until you also feel the summer’s downpour in your womb, warm, thick and nourishing.
I, the cloud.
You, my earth.
I promise you, in another lifetime, this is what we’ll do.
Will Crimson:August 16 2015