The liquid lady

I watch the squall toddle over the bay toward where I sit. Let it wash over me and soak through my clothes to drench my skin, liquify my soul a little. I become fluid like fluid I have never known. You could siphon me into a tub and bathe in my very essence. I’m warm, let osmosis do it’s job and I could seep into your pores, lick my way through your veins and toss myself around in your mind like a circus girl in her big stripy tent.

I slid through the partially open bedroom door, peeled wet fabric from my small frame and threw myself amongst the linen. My skin is moist to the touch, bloated, fingers pruning and sensitive. I can feel every thread of cotton, every dip and rise of my waffled pillow case. The liquid lady has become but a damp semi-solid form, all feeling, all sensing. And then skin… yours brushing mine however unlikely.

I am faint, I feel like an empty moleskine. Tentatively lift open my coverlet and scrawl your prose and poetry amongst my pages, darling. Sketch in me your favourite flower, draw my portrait, spritz me with your favourite cologne and leave me in your jacket pocket. I want your deepest, darkest secrets and silly passing thoughts alike. Treat me like a psyche break, I can aid you. Whisper your private sentences through my fluid form, watch bubbles containing your words glide through and nestle into watery caves for safe keeping.

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