I am positively obsessed with direct sunlight. It has a power over me, so generous, and deliciously demanding.
Sit here and be pleasured. Lay down. Expose your skin so I can kiss you everywhere. Do not move until I roll you over, when you grow too hot to bear.
Back in California, I slept with this lover nearly everyday. My apartment was wall to wall windows facing East and South, so even inside I tracked the hot star like a sunflower full of buttery seeds, nodding my heavy head. I moved to Seattle in November. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
When I leave for a walk the sky is bright and dry, weather welcome enough to convince myself I am satisfied. The forecast teases me with that yellow icon, but my hopes aren't high. Then rays begin to beam through thin clouds and sparkle on the face of the sound. My mouth waters. Clouds thinning more now. The sky showing that ridge line, where the belly meets the hips. I mount a rock to meet it, to be just a little closer, ready. Open my chest, close my eyes. Take me! Red swirls over my lids as my cheeks remember whence all their life came. I pay close attention, savoring, as the warmth slowly penetrates the layers of my clothes. First soaking through the weft of my jeans, then the leggings underneath. My calves are awash now, singing, loosening. My thighs open up. Sun makes quick work of my pea coat, then two layers of wool, and covers my back with its fabric of little fires, dancing tango with my blood. My cell membranes thaw. They are sliding against each other now.
The witchery of living is my whole conversation with you, my darlings.
I hate sunscreen and almost never wear it. I do not want any barrier to intimacy with my lover. In fact, I like to be burned. A little, not too bad. I love to glow pink and proud, marked, so you know with whom I've been, where I was licked again and again. I relish the tender hot pain of brushing burnt skin, which reminds me of the long bright hours of being beaten by that life-giving master. It is the closest Sun gets to leaving his scent.
Visit the garden where the scarlet trumpets are opening their bodies for the hummingbirds who are drinking the sweetness, who are thrillingly gluttonous.
Submit to your pleasure, to the ecstasy of your senses, to the world that wants its way with you. Wander onto the land until you find some place or some being that delights your senses, that you find beautiful, that your skin reaches for. Imagine that you are able to eat this pleasure. Pay close attention as it slides down your throat. Feel it being taken up by your cells, becoming you. Let this delight penetrate you completely. Shaped now in the likeness of this gift, give it back, in the way only you can. A dance perhaps, a song. Maybe you've learned through the Mystery of interpenetration what your lover most desires. Give it freely, until the giving feels like receiving.
And you will hear the air itself, like a beloved, whisper: oh, let me, for a while longer, enter the two beautiful bodies of your lungs.
Lines of poetry from To Begin With, the Sweet Grass, by the ever enchanting Mary Oliver. As you might guess, I do also think beauty exists from some fabulous reason.