patterns of complexity

He has hands which fit perfectly, the definition I hold, of masculinity. His fingers thick and heavily contoured. Skin wrapped tightly around knob like joints and knuckles, lined with the protrusions of vein and bone as they wage a battle beneath the skin’s surface, each fighting for their right to push upwards, to stake claim in territory beyond the confines of anatomy. Each movement sends twitches of muscles drawn taught as though ready to grip and clutch hold whatever presses against them. Yet they are gentle enough to encase my own, protectively shielding my tiny hands from harm, as though they were the delicate china of a toy doll.

In my mind, his palms are rough with callused pads; a lifetime of manual labor to blame for the thick and broken skin, the rolling hill of heeled thumb encased in a protective shell born of years  creating and destroying, until finally, they have found equilibrium in strength and flexibility. I envision watching those hands manipulate, his strong fingers molding clay, carving wood and stone, his graceful application of tools against metal and glass. I see his eyes focus, concentration honed upon the task before him, as those hands work and rework, twisting, pressing, prodding. How often I’ve felt my skin mold beneath his touch, felt my muscles yield to it, my breath quicken at the imagined lingered stroke of fingertips as they grip the edges, the soft skin, the protruding bone of my own hidden valleys, far beyond the watchful eyes of others.

Reality has made his hands soft, supple. They rest upon my knee with hesitation, uncertainty. He carefully withholds the power of those fingers, those thick masculine palms, allowing me to trace their contours with my own childlike fingertips. I could watch the muscles move and roll beneath his skin, mapping out the battle of his self control for days. His talk fills the silence, telling me of him, his life, gracefully skirting the edges of his complications, but my attention is focused upon the hand which has now moved quietly up to my inner thigh, entwining its fingers with mine to create a complication all our own. I exhale with desire at this touch, exhale with need for more, but firmly disentangle myself from the hand of a man I am forbidden to falling into.

But how I want to fall. How desperately I want those hands to uncover my secrets, to unravel completely the me I struggle to hold together, to pull me into him. How I want those hands to penetrate me, violate me, caress and sooth me and the heat which even now as I walk away, flushes my body with desire.

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door frames

How significant doorways became to us. How strong and supportive they must have been to encase us, protect us. Our house should have leaned slightly to the left, and our shoulders, black with bruises and thick with callous from all the weight we heaved into the frames; the in between places, the entrances and exits to our rooms. How many sighs of exasperation, sadness, regret are imbedded in those walls? How many hollow voices reverberate between the boards, a perpetual echo of our dissatisfaction. How many worn out steps, made smooth from rubbing toes ready to spring? The wood itself, scuffed and dented with finger marks, whole hand prints permanently etched from years of silent, exhaustive doorway arguments. How those arguments became all that we were in the end… The misdirected gazes out windows, into corners, examining the fine details of our fingertips, anywhere but into the eyes of the other. The long drawn out pauses, heavy with regret. While the other stood, shoulder dug into the doorway, head leaning against the frame, one foot just outside…. waiting, wanting, to step through. How little was said in those nighttime rituals; those conversations of betrayal and hate. Yet every night they’d continue, with switched positions. One day it was I left sitting alone in the room, a crumbling shell of disinterest and apathy, the next, him. So egalitarian we were in the end… and yet so unwilling to let the other walk out that door.

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blues and purples

Paint is everywhere, coating the floor in technicolor wonder. Their tiny toes squish and ooze as they slip and slide across the hall. Their brushes abandoned in the corner, as they use their hands to squeeze the last drops from the bottles, creating a puddle of thick, textured paint at their feet. They squeal with delight at the forbidden indulgence of finger painting a house, a real, adult house, which only the day before had been filled with all our life’s possessions. The emptiness of the space echos their happy noises, multiplying the excitement until it feels as though the entire house is full of children laughing and splashing in fresh, wet paint. My tiny boy slips and falls, and I worry he’s hurt himself. But before he cries out, your daughter takes the moment (and her brush) to paint his hair a rainbow of blues and reds and purples, telling him to sit still so she can make him pretty. He looks to me for permission, still unsure of the consequences of breaking all these rules… but wanting more than anything for me to nod and smile. The silence of their concentration is louder than the shrieks of play, and I am transfixed by their closeness, their imagination. And there you are, quietly creeping around the corner, your camera in hand, capturing the wonder of their play. I hear the soft click of the shutter as you take photo after photo, aware of the fleeting, tenuous nature of this moment. Your bare feet stick to the vinyl of my floor, the muscles of your thighs tightly holding you in a squat as you quickly move to a better angle. I feel a witness to the beauty of all the silent focus in this room, and it fills me to explosion with love. I want to cry and laugh and embrace all of you, I want to roll in the paint and kiss you, deeply and with conviction. I want to pull our children into my arms and tell them they are the most perfect creatures ever created, and somehow they are ours. I let out a long exhale, letting all these impulses escape me. I am an observer to this moment, making a memory which I can visit whenever I need you, need this. You pull your eyes from the lens, and catch my gaze. Your eyes are bright, full of life, and I know that you have caught my exhale. Suddenly, the children vanish and it is just you and I in this emptiness. The need to touch you is overwhelming. I stand, walk towards and then past you, letting my fingers gently grace your shoulders and back, my nail leaves the imprint of my desire on your skin. I can feel you rise just a tiny bit to hold my touch. And I know you’d pull me down to you, push my back onto the paint coated floor, take my face in your hands, and open my mouth with yours… if only you could.

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