That Kind Of Woman

Your collarbones collected secrets long held close to your heart in the drawn out lonely nights you thought of me. Your fingers would dip and drop into the recess, soft skin harsh, hard bone horrible secrets. Haunted notes hit the air like the steady high notes in black and white films. Your mouth parted in memory, your eyes deep in nostalgic remembering. 

History for you and I, was like a scary story told around smokey sticks burning in a campfire. Our beginning like the bitter bite into not ripe fruit. Our middle like the jagged edges of rocks split by force. Our end a rattling, raspy smokers cough. 

Perhaps you licked your lips, wetting the surface where your lies bloom. Grown deep with in that organ, the one with the agonizing beat to the music, only beautiful when played by the right hands. 

Now we mourn the awareness that burst when we touched, tattooing our feelings for future lovers. Nothing compares. Not to the way you played over my ribs like the keys on a old and well loved piano. Not the taste of your breath, sweetened like honey, across my lips. Not the eyes that met me with unspoken desire, spoken through our figures. 

Smothered I was, suffocate I did. 

-Kat Keegan

July 1st, 2012

Fiction Writing: Write a song after listening to Bad Ritual by Timber Timbre.

(Source: thatkindofwoman)