waiting for the dark to burn away
i. all of my thoughts, like junkyard dogs, guarding scraps of nothing.
At la Maison, the walls are too black to melt into; Amy recognizes your face immediately and turns on her heels. You go to her anyway, because you're just that stupid.
And it's like, so what's a pretty face like yours doing in a happy city like this?
You find yourself saying hi and your voice doesn't crack. It almost doesn't crack, and you smile uncertainly.
She licks her lips and you're toast.
(In her mind, she licks strawberry jam off your pretty breasts. The first and then the second, your skin is already sticky where her tongue might trace a wet circle.
Her lips part --)
"Hey," she smiles casually.
You flew to the other side of the country. You really did think it would be enough, except you knew she'd follow your trail of breadcrumbs and lipstick and a message on her answering machine.
She makes you so weak.
ii. underneath a black sky soaked in stars.
It darkly surrounds you – the city, the hotel, the same music, over and over again.
You sit in the lobby and make small talk, about Los Angeles and the weather and all the other fictions (except him, you don't talk about him; you don't even mention his name).
You say again that you've long deserved a holiday. You say it casually, like you mean it, and she nods. Her hair falls on her face as she does, and you fight the urge to tuck it back behind her ear.
You fight the urge to pin her down and tear her shirt open right there.
You don't look her in the eye and she puts her hand on your knee, trailing upwards. You're strong enough; you made it to fucking LA, fucking Beverly Hills, and you're so, so tired of her games of almost- falling and always-leaving, and her smell on the sheets in your empty apartment when you wake up.
You want to be normal.
You hate the sound of birds chirping happily in the morning when she's already gone, and how she never tells you that she loves you (she probably doesn't).
You push away her hand and look at her; she smiles.
She doesn't apologize.
Amy never apologizes.
iii. out of the fires of false desires.
The elevator light flashes red on her face as she pushes the emergency button.
She pins you against the red wall and presses up against you. She breathes into your mouth and licks her lips before pressing them against yours, just to tease.
You already start to unbutton her jeans.
She kisses and licks her way down your neck and you moan.
She slips your fingers into her, onetwothree, and she calls out your name; you're at the beginning of a power trip that's not going to last for much longer, only until
-- she rides your fingers as you move them inside, she moans and bites your neck, she's sharp outside and so, so soft inside --
She comes, shuddering, with your blood underneath her nails.
You can almost taste the adrenaline on her tongue when you kiss.
It used to feel romantic. It used to be about the pleasure. It used to—
You feel so used, it was never any of those things and she was always fucking Josh too, and she still is. In your mind, you can taste him on her lips. In your mind you can taste all of them, unfamiliar, those names you don't know.
You, in her mouth.
Her tongue moves inside you in shapes you can't trace. It's smooth on your skin, and your body reacts to hers so naturally, obeying her movements and dying at the edges.
It doesn't matter where you run, or that you ever ran at all. Nothing matters but her name in your mouth, and the burning desire to be swallowed whole.
She sinks her teeth into your flesh for a split second.
(You were never a song and she was always Jesus.)
-- she digs inside with her tongue and her fingers, fast and slick and oh, god, you swear you see the light, so close --
iv. the cure for everything.
You melt on her lips, in her hands, under her breath.
Idly, wearily, your finger traces lines over her skin: down her neck, her breast, the curve of her waist, the line of her hips. She's warm and sweaty and still breathing heavily, the sound of her breath clouding semi-decent elevator music.
Your finger stops between her legs and you pull back.
You need to get up, get dressed, and leave now.
You hold on for a moment longer; lately, you've been staring into space often.
You stare at the red ceiling.
When you go back outside, the world will be covered with stars.
You won't even ask why she came at all.