In Dreams (The Cabin)
It’s fall, and we’re sitting next to a rock-lined fire pit. Everyone else has gone to bed. The smell of fallen leaves and woodsmoke and pine sap. You’re wearing a flannel against the chill, I’m in a sweater.
You’re soft, warm. You hum to yourself as you toss twigs into the fire, crackling. My mouth waters. My legs yearn to move.
I whisper. “Let’s play ‘catch me’.”
You look at me, evenly, and then smirk. Your voice does that soft thing. “You want me to catch you?”
I nod, silent, fervent, cheeks burning, ears burning, eyes wide.
You smile. “Run, then.”
I know this land better than you. I run into the dark, skid across the leaves, scramble, flee. I hear you behind me, slow to start, gaining momentum. It won’t be long now.
When you catch me, I squeal, like a rodent in its last moments. You lift me up, spin me about, press your face into the side of my neck as you laugh. As roughly as you caught me, you gently lay me down on the leaves. My breath catches. I reach up, caress your cheek in the gloaming. You reach down, cup the curve of my hipbone in the palm of your hand.
We taste like anxiety and desperation, we move like this is the first and last time, we sing absolution.
We pick the leaves and twigs from our hair, our clothes, and pitch them into the embers. If they didn’t know by the way we look at each other, they’ll know now.