Beach Chair


Minuscule peaks of adobe form a dreamscape to frame the slats of need. I spoke to him of love that day, that god-and-devil-forsaken day when his hands left sweat-prints on my heart and his ass carved canyons of “do me now” in the cushion-canvas of my soul. Love, I said, and only love, wrapped skin-tight all my dreams. Don’t you see the shape of growing old in sunset’s golden maw? I need you, need you here with me, a million moments more, to kiss and suckle at life’s breast. Come, grip my cheeks and dive beneath the cresting waves of shuddering spurting sex.

Love? he asked. You, just you, for all my weary nights?

Not weary, not at all, as nights give rise to day. Sunrise paints amber rose to fold back the star-crusted night, and I would fold back his ennui with gentle thrusts, and hard.

It wouldn’t work, he sighed, I’m bored with you already. He gripped the wooden arms to rise.

It will, you can’t be bored, we’ve just begun, my hands atop his pled.

He shoved his muscled bulk up and left me wintering there all summer long, frozen in the sun.

I kept the chair, a shrine to him, imagining his scent still lingered. Move after move, Baja to Winnipeg to Miami to Belfast.

Be done with it, be done with him, he broke your heart, says the only one I’ve told.

I can’t. He made me what I am, I answer.

Then I must love him, too, he whispers and memory slips down to die.

About suzanawylie

Suzana Wylie is the not-very-pseudo pseudonym of Susan Wylie Wilson, because let's face it, there are lots of Susan Wilsons around, and as an author, I want readers to find ME and not the bazillions of others. I've been writing all my life - since I learned to hold a pencil anyway - and can't NOT write. Other people have to breathe to live; I have to write.
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