sex

Sanctuary: Stretched in Between Living and Dying.

{Photo credit: Tiffany Bisconer}

 

I drink flowers for breakfast and sip on all the words I’m not ready to say out loud. Because they aren’t yet formed and aesthetically packaged. Because they might cut my mouth on the way out. I hold back, not because I don’t want to stand in my truths, but because I don’t want to wrap up this discovery too quickly. I’m anticipating that sweet taste of blood on my lips. Forging diamonds through my voice.

There is this beautiful space between the sudden death caused by honesty and hanging off the ledge of conviction in complete freedom. I sound the alarm on my bursting sexuality and burn myself to life from the heartbeats of my buried selves. Integrate, then bifurcate. Merge, then unravel. Feeling the energy surge in the unfamiliar shadows of my desires.

Bated breath. Frozen within this weighted chest. Cycling between hope and numbing uncertainty. Craving bone-level nourishment. At the edge of this looming collective death, I find myself reaching for all that enlivens me. A primitive core enveloped in love. A heart of soft sheets and bursting clouds. A body steeped in the sounds of rain and escaping moans. Your face, a light, against a storm brushed reality.

This is the clarity that chaos brings. This is the center point. Where truth is birthed. Where we hold close what truly matters. Where I hold you even closer. This is where we relinquish ourselves to the real. When all we have left is the script of our souls.

Words scatter like petals around us as we lay witness to one another. You pull me out of myself. Attached to something higher than the mind. More intentional. Greater than thought. Greater than us. More sensual. More instinctual. Inhaling the point of impact where we intersect. Aching for this. Only this.

The sweat between my body and yours is a gentle baptism. Vulnerability laced with the innocence and confusion of unknowing. Moving beyond our previous capacity for surrender. A reminder that touch is more than skin-deep. The fluid movements between connecting and distancing and the threads that connect us regardless of the space between.

Splattered in shadows. Dripping in hollowed seduction. You sneak underneath my skin. Growing within me. Taking up space where my breath once was. Unraveling this unruly snake at my navel. Lost the rule book. Found freedom.

Is this what it feels like to ignite the marriage of duality? Through debilitating desire. This burden of openness. This damnation of clarity. Pulsing. Reaching. Seeing colors with no form. Am I ripe or rotting? Stretched in between living and dying.

The roots of my nature shaking this luscious tree of my own growth. Rings of wisdom weathered by the stubbornness of reality.

I am built to fly, yet I stand so deeply planted in this dirt. At home in earth. Face to the wind. Equal parts endurance and hope. The softest touch through my centerline of intangible sensations. Your fingertips tracing my collar bones. Bare breasts. Broken armor. The real. The grounded. The unsettling. Have you come to uproot me, or to water me where I lie?

Where I once felt great comfort in my solitude, I’m now grounded by the intimacy captured in the corners of your lips and the soft lines of your eyes when they are close to mine. The details of existence don’t get lost on you, nor do the details of me. Thoughtful gestures. Unspoken inquiries. I breathe a calm lullaby beneath your wake. I breathe you. Open eyes. Gently opened thighs. The last sanctuary in a mad world.

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Tiffany Bisconer is a bursting-hearted lover of all things passionate and is quite intent on squeezing the most out of her life’s potential. She is a bona fide beauty connoisseur with an exceptionally hungry brain, and has become quite accustomed to fighting for some sense of equilibrium between a complete surrender to dreamscaped idealism and the stubborn tempering of pragmatism. In her attempt to quiet and express the oft urgent and clawing desires of her being, she dances, sings, photographs, writes, paints, loves or otherwise finds some manner in which to siphon the voice of her heart. You could connect with her via her website, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest or Tumblr.

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