Variations of Blue

This night I will have wished to find an escape through my clothes. A pattern dance, variations of blue. The bartender will tell me, I am an oceanic resemblance. Our mouths would then come undone and through them a gentle rising of conversation. Until from hands swathed in tulle, I would let my dress drop naturally around my sides, a gesture so subtle with its deliveree but deliberate enough to know the implication was I go, let's get out of here, be caught. As the attention of our voices fell away from each other, I was aware of the timing, my chance for advantage. Taking my straw, small and impotent, a disservice for sucking, I would have it touch the glasses’ rim, an over determined circling, he would know. I wasn’t even drunk. But it had been done before. Placing remnants of this vocal gesture on my tongue, I would swallow what he had mixed. Eyeing him, thank you, this is exactly what I need. Which is a lie, I knew. Behind, watching me, my dress, how moving it pinched imperfect patches of waist. Following, he would find me, mesmerized by my way. I wondered whether he could see beneath it all, my body separate from the way it seemed. I hated the thought of this, was that me as I truly am? Deception. Eyes, a fragment of a greater language. Voice, an echo of the original feeling. And my body, bare and by the light, no resemblance to the impression I gave when hips were waving in variations of blue. 

I cannot see myself in those moments. Belonging to him, I am his discovery. An exposure with head high, I proposed toward the night, hoping it would remain there. When depth closes in on itself, bodies collapse from weight, holding back the light. I tell him, I am best half-alive in the illusion of sight. His mouth hangs open, emptied of laughter, speaking instead, “You are the best worst thing I will ever see.” Attraction through difference, I am effected by the translation. Familiar feelings, heavy between his body and mine. He could be anyone. I will behave the same, exactly. Repetition prevents authenticity. A betrayal to his expectation, I am, not sorry. Takes me, taking hair, tightly handling us, “Yours is shorter than mine.” He loves this, but how am I to know. Fisting me, it is easy to feel hurt. But this was not his intention, he will want to tell me in every way. Later when it is too afterwards to think differently and care. Making his way down on me, I worry, worry I will open only once. Let out a bit of what is produced within, and have that not be the risk that makes us take off toward the day, forgetting this, now. It is the light, I fear in the dark, with him providing an atmosphere of flesh. I would rather he stay inside me, projected into my abyss, than overflow with whiteness. Be delivered completely, lightness and I coming together, an inseparable sight exposing things not exactly the same. This I fear, becoming uncovered by light, divided from clothes, the texture of the night no longer protecting, my skin, how thick it seems. I feel different, humiliated, he hates how my ugliness shows for my self. Self-decided on the mirror of my eyes, he sees me no longer a luminary of desire. Deflecting the night’s feelings and appearing in the light as I fear I am. Close my eyes for good, I try then try again, again.