Works in Progress - 'My Garden of you'

Magic realism inspired erotic prose

Too often, I find myself returning, sinking indulgently, into my midnight garden of you.

Did I imagine your invitation? I question it now, endlessly. Winding snatches of our interactions like hair around my fingers. Your subtle words fade to a whisper. All that remains is an undeniable tug, like tough tendrils of ivy, wrapping themselves with a firmness, insistence and grace, around my deeply rooted desire.

I wander into descent, drifting, drawn by the earthy scents of memories, as delicious and familiar as dirt, musk and jasmine. Life and decay in all it’s olfactory splendour. My feet feeling their way across cool, stone steps, descending into the depths of a multitude of shaded greens, exposed soles feeling my way in the haze of my mind.

The iron gate presents itself with trembling stoicism. My fingers intently search for a latch and find it. It offers no resistance now. The gate opens against the force of my hands, giving itself to my need. It moves aside with a grinding of bolts that groans.

I am released now, enveloped in the belly of your earthly pleasures.

I dissolve to my knees and lay my naked skin down onto the dampness of a blanket of grass. I turn my cheek to press my ear into the ground to let me feel the hammering beat of your big, bold heart. Green moss presses itself against my cheek the way you did when you embraced me and laid your face against mine, so deftly; so deliberately.

The sweet musk of rotted leaves meets me, surrendered and wanting. The weight of anticipation lays its muscular strength heavily upon my naked body, pressing my femininity into the ground, unwinding me, leaving me open and breathless.

Trailing wildflowers snake up my body, stroking across my ankles, buds gently kissing my thighs. Moonlight lovingly caresses my skin like the tracing of your long, elegant fingertips. Beetles with shells that shine like petrol on concrete murmur low, like the exhale of your breath in my ear. A snail leaves a trailing, slippery touch across my hips. A shimmer of ants runs across my breasts, making my back gently arch.

Cornflowers watch my burgeoning heat with their baby blue as intently as your eyes held my gaze when you could no longer avoid it. The ivy, with all its destructive beauty and vinyl gloss wraps itself around my waist and my shoulder, holding me tightly, possessing me, squeezing a sigh from my parted lips. Wild rock borders observe, shining their angular square jaws, almost sharp enough to slice flesh.

In the lull of the late summer breeze, low branches cradle a lone nightingale who sings a seductive melody of longing, of ecstasy unrealised, of an unspoken promise we made each other; not yet met.

My own heartbeat quickens, like the pulses of the wings of the gossamer moths, the sticky perfume of blood red roses envelopes me, surrendered and wanting. My body lies captive in your embrace, dragged further into the delicious depths of earth, until the sky and stars become pin prick glimmers and reality quietens to a cicada’s distant clicks.

If I cannot have you, if it cannot be, this is where I want to stay; held tightly in the grip of our unrealised desire, in my garden of you.