Silver Slivers Upon My Tongue, or, Things I Think About in the Shower

As soon as he started playing, it all came back to me.  Blossoming in front of my eyes above the stage that held the single, spotlighted strong back of the man playing piano.

The two handmade bars of soap that you brought to me from the monastery in the woods.  One, a tar and clove and tea tree oil smelling rough cut bar : because you knew the smell of astringent and dirt turns me on, satisfies me.  This is something we have in common.  The second was plumeria, I imagine at the advice of your female friend and co-worker who went with you. (Such an odd presence she always had to us- advising you in such gendered directions.  I loved it.  You knew I got off on the feeling of my cock pressed against the inside of my perfectly pressed pants.  She knew that you should offer me flowers with a bowed head and open glass doors for me.)

I knew these two, thick bars of soap would be the last time I touched something that had been touched by your hands. Given to me by them. You produced them from your coat pockets. One each. Your hands were awkward. Uncertain.

How I would bathe myself with them in the shower. Savoring them. Wanting to save them, but not being able to.

I would take the bar into my hands
steam enveloping me
and
melt it into my breasts
around my nipples
letting the scent absorb into my skin
be inhaled into my lungs. 
I would slide it down my stomach
to the insides of my thighs
the backs of my thighs
up across my ass to my
lower back
around to my stomach
slide up my chest and behind my neck
where I would hold it
imagining you
holding onto me
one more time
the weight of your hand
behind my neck.


k.



(thank you to Nils, and company, for an incredible conjuring of images that night)
(thank you to refinery29 tumblr for assisting in finding this image from Anna Sheffield's lookbook)
(thank you to Alfred Hitchcock for the remnants of Psycho in my mouth and psyche, having watched it for the first time ever yesterday night.)