It starts with a thought, like the vilest or holiest of things, a single, thought. Mine was that of a woman, about a woman. And, in thought, in fantasy, she was perfect, heaven distilled, undiluted, and she fluidly found her way into my deepest places, the dark ones I dare not search, yet always return to in turmoil.
Every one of her words hung like a fog, before my face, I stripped every letter, mixed them up, rearranged them to hear what she said, deaf to what she meant. Such was my obsession. I wondered at her movements, her loves and her fears, and that maybe I was one of them: a love, a fear. Who did she touch, who kissed her, who holds her secrets? Did her thoughts of me consume her, suffocate her, like mine of her buried me and resurrected me? A beautiful paradox.
I imagined her standing regal, poised: crumbs on my lips, cookies of this runaway imagination. Stiff, staring and mocking, affectionate. I reached out to her, she came to me, broke in my hands. I died in hers. A heap of bones, storms of feeling, unfeeling.
What did her lips taste of, what is her essence, her sinful pleasure? Would her skin have been as soft as my imaginings, warm and tender and fragrant? My mind turned, its feet blistered in exhaustion, blood dripping, stains on a youth’s fragile conscience.
Everything done, it all started with a thought.