You’ve left your bed. While everyone sleeps, you tip-toe out of the old creaky screen-door and across the backyard. Past your mother’s garden and your father’s old shed, intent for the seaside timberland beyond. To our stolen pier. Our special place.
Our sanctuary from the world. Our harborside abandoned.
Thoughts of that first morning together consume your memory. I left you a trail, a lifeline like bread-crumbs. The pink and orange rays of the 4:00am sun were your lighthouse though the green.
Still in your night-dress, you traveled in your knee-high Doc Martens, wound so tight around your pallid cold flesh. My riot-girl, my kinderwhore, my punk-rock courtesan. We sang with the cicadas as your walls came down for the very first time. Your shrieks bellowed like a sylph cackling through the thickets.
As you made the journey today, you noticed something. There was a change. A stillness.
The insects suddenly ceased their mating-ritual serenade. A subtle shift in the ether. A thickness in the air… a scent.
It began to rain.
As I took you in my arms, faeries danced on our backs. Like an army of wet tongue-tips, invisible, impenetrable, encouraging us towards the dark. Our song was different. It wasn’t a mere song; It was a fucking opera. And we performed it like two coloraturas.
Sir's submissive 