[bloody kisses]: 558.Passionate Ballads & Lore.I Can Be a Saxophone

Part 1:

[The music to my ears, a secret ceremony, vocabulary of correction gliding from the tongue, expelled and reverberates, strains down the hall. Spiking interest, arousing ears it inclines. I step gracefully, floating, towards the door left slightly ajar. Peeking through, a wash of crescendo collapses over my body, a wave of notes. Atop the platform, the girl everyone hates, baring her soul through music – the practiced fingers dancing over the buttons of the brilliantly shiny instrument. The song end all too soon, and her blues peek up, finding my own feminine hazel eyes; her cheeks turn red. But still, I walk to her and motion for her to touch me the same.]

Part 2:

(Those hazel eyes glance at me, so fond, so knowing, so sweet, passionate. I always wanted to be like that, but now I have her. She’s all I need, all I want, all I know. She is my queen, and I tell her, treat her so. All I believe. Her touch is soft and affectionate, contrasting with my own rough, and almost confused – awkward. I am afraid if I hold her wrong, I’ll find her as an abandoning illusion; leaving me derelict on my own accidental account. But, all she does when I confront her with my fear is kiss my nose and tell me she would never disappear on me. So, we lay under the sun on the lawn of – well who knows? – tickling each other. I find my way to her stomach and trail one finger up her top.)

Part 3:

[“Fill my heart with song, and let me sing forever more…” I sing along to her playing. Before, always shadowed, believing she worshiped the sarcastic feed of metal, the apathetic tone of punk – all just to find not only that, she enjoys the bubbles of pop, warp of rap, funk of hip-hop, and smooth glide of jazz, swing, and classic. Not only was I singing because I actually knew this one, but I love her too – destined to show it. And if Sinatra can sing his passion for whatever mistress was in his mind, then, equally, so can I. Then, I can end mine with the reality of her smell, her taste, her feel. Her love bore to my own to hold us bound forever.]

Part 4:

(The girl next-door and the shameless freak paired together for so long? The questions float around the school, but she still grasps my hand tight, murmuring how it’s only wasted gossip. But why should I be worried, I know the shade of the next-door-girl’s underwear at this very moment, and how she always has her panties paired with her bra in some way shame or form. All that matters is our love, how we’ll walk right out the front door in a few moment, and go to her house, and lay on her bedroom floor eating fruit, commenting on the foolishness of my parents – for they don’t understand. She’ll cradle my body to hers and insist they’ll understand…one day. And my mouth will find its way to her beautiful stomach once more, and my tongue with close around her button piercing. This is bliss.)

Part 5:

[Without her warmth I feel cold as death. As cold as her parents. As cold and as barren as a frozen waterfall. They were supposed to retire here, but what good did their word do? As changing as morning dew, as the world’s ill considered oceans. But she’s gone, her saxophone still resting in the corner of my room. The smell of her coo, her giggle, her sweat still on my sheets. Clad in her black cargo pants, orange dyed hemp shirt and magenta and grey plain suspenders she’ll forever be painted in my dreams. Forever without her, I’ll be a joke. I’ll be what everyone wants; disposable, and broken. Useable, but always, always, always mistrusted. Never worth a dime, only exposure. A waste of oxygen thief. A waste…without my gothic queen.]