i remember lying in that tent
Five other people
and the body next to mine
slowly i moved
my smallest finger
so the very tip
(that tip burning like the earlier campfire as the man stepped through it) then
so outside edge
touched outside edge of finger
so that seconds
ticked like minutes (longer even)
and minutes moved even slower and further apart
i could feel every tick
within my body
as each twitch
as i wondered
does he sleep?
am i alone in this full waking?
just the outside
edge of pinkie
stretching along each millimetre of skin of the edge of the hand
(is there another word for hand~for that bundle of nerves that feels every, each touch?)
every feeling cell of my body
was concentrated on that one small piece of my skin
(i could feel the enormity of that largest organ)
all consciousness, my brain, my whole being, only alive within my hand
my heart beating only there
As the time stretched endlessly by
(eternities passed, and were felt, electrically)
the skin stretched to arms
then, ever possible, if possible
skin stretched slowly along the side of torsos
slipping to thighs
knocking to knees
feet brushing together
when did it change
to lips on lips?
to body on body?
full on touch
full skin on skin
skin to skin (all skin, each skin)
those nerve endings awake
like never before
When did it change to wordless knowledge?
Silent, sweet intimacy with a stranger
a tent with four other people sleeping soundly
probably already have. Probably did long ago (soon afterwards). Too much wine, too much cocaine. What an odd night. With the crazy drunken man. And the gunshots. And what came after, in the tent.
Is it okay to relish moments like these? To revel in their memory? Excusable to excesses of youth?