She stands on the edge of the rock, watching the 1st color of the morning sky, a dusty rose. Perched on a cold slippery stone, at the lakes edge, while the water laps at her feet.
She looks back on her life, wondring how she came to be here. Choices. Other than the whisper of a light breeze, the only sound is the call of the loons.
She lets her robe drop, thinking all the while how other's view her in her swimsuit at her age. She has slipped out of the home while her family sleeps, to think in the quiet of the morning.
No one can see her, among the tree's surrounding the water, and who would want too? She is alone with her thoughts. Most people would avert thier eyes, for she dresses young considring her age. Does it matter? She is happy with how she is, how she has lived. She knows she is stylish when fully clothed, but time has robbed her of her of the lushness of her body. Her creamy skin, and shiny hair. She still feels like she is 20, but in fact, is much older.
She is unrecognizable as the girl she was then, in fact, this is true for everyone. No one her age see's the person they were in the mirror.
She eases into the water, but today for some reason, the water seems colder, her body seizes in shock, and she already wants to turn back. She can't seem to get her stride. When she was younger, she could swim circles around this lake. She use to relish this.
She remembers the water being warmer, more accepting of her body.
The early morning has stolen time, The time before the children wake and need her. She wishes it could last forever, the quiet, the freedom.
Today is not as pleasant as she thought it to be. It was just a shadow of what it could have been. How she dreamed it.
She didn't like being reminded of her age, it made her angry, frustratged. She was unbeatable at one time. As she put her robe on, she saw a figure standing in the tree's. Only did she? Was it her imagination, or was it?
Friends, lovers, soulmates....Sometimes we hurt the people we love the most. We do it, because something inside of us is broken and hurting. It does not even have to do with the other person, it's just this ugly thing.
An unhappy place, and everything bad....... anger sadness, jelousy....it all lives there.
When you go there, you live in that place, and when your there you might do and say things that are hurtful and terrible.
Things that are good and happy and bright cause you pain. You want to hide those things, smash them, kill them. You want other people to hurt, so they can feel your pain.
Even when you profess to love them.
Sorry is life, do people really understand what that means? Do they learn from it, and move forward, or do they continue to hide behind thier pain? How can you love, when you don't love yourself?
A connection, so base, with another person; unbridled lust. Hot sizzeling passion, the sheer lunacy of a moment in time when you feel wild, unthreatened in your sexuality. Complete confidence in satisfaction.
Hot summers night, a look, crazed with need. Clothing being torn, shed, thrown, a need so deep to feel skin to skin. Animal, screams in your mind for touch; fast, slick, hot.
His sculputred body, dripping, wet. Movement, in slow motion, he's holding her curved back to him, his muscled tattoed arm across her breast, a moment of protection for her, power for him. Yet, the only emotion, the only need is to be complete. Satiated, slack with having the fire fed.
His member, sliding into her, thick and hard, filling her; her hair, dripping, thrown over his shoulder, his breath on her neck. Both on thier knees, his back to the wall. A gripping need for fullfillment. Muscles, tortured, streched for release. Feeling it, seeing it in her mind. Feeling it in the deepest part of her. Living and breathing every inch of his perfection. Re-living it.
The hottness, comes in waves then, spiraling, flooding her mind, her soul. Shaking her to her core. Knowing every inch of him, tracing him in her minds eye, shattering her senses. Breaking her composure, reducing her to nothing and everything; the universe. Exploding, expanding, being washed away. Cleansed. Just a moment in time. Primal.
Failure is not a feeling: it's a taste, acidic, hot, sickening; an ache at the base of his skull. The frantic hum that permeates his whole body. The reflections in his womans eye's. In her fake smile at the end of the day.
The creeping grip of it in his cold hands. Know one knows the worst of it, but him. His glance in the mirror, the insecurity of knowing the truth. Nausea sweeps his mind. There is no way out, no way back.
Racing towards an abyss, his thoughts conjuring madly blowing winds, swirling endlessly in a black sky. Not stopping, yet seeing his choices so clearly, the pain of them numbing him. Wanting to shut out the ceasless litnay of needs. An altogether familiar tightness in his chest. Screaming, so silently.
All he can hear now, is the sound of his own thoughts. Trying to fill them, with faceless, nameless people. He see's them as angry and grey, gripping thier own thoughts, and lives, the way he is. Only, is he projecting? Was he simply seeing the world around him in a portrait of his own inner life?
Is he the failure? Or, is the rest of the world? Who is he? What is he? On the road, he watches the traffic going past. Fast, faster, everyone trying to get somewhere. At the grocery store, he looks at the rows and rows of consumer products, all of them saying buy me, buy me. I'll make you healthier, I'll make you richer, what does it all mean? Where is he going in life?
What is life? He is lost in his selfishness, lost in thinking and belieivng it's all about him, but he can't stop. Does the end really justify the means? Is there such a thing as acceptale causualtys? He no longer cares, his needs are greater.
His pain is greater than all else. Does he believe this? Yes, he believes this. He suffer's. No one else. Pride is the advent of fools, he was taught this, but his numbness prevents logical thinking. His heart, is cold, and dead. Dried up like the fall leaves that cover the ground. Crushed beneath the weight of failure.
She stands on the edge of the rock, watching the 1st color of the morning sky, a dusty rose. Perched on a cold slippery stone, at the lakes edge, while the water laps at her feet. 
