Roll the r on romance

I think I’m a serial romancer. 

Not in the way that I frequently romance anyone but in the way that I romanticise. 

Think about dying. About being dead. About how once you are dead dying doesn’t matter anymore, it’s no longer a fear or anxiety. Think about being pronounced dead and being buried with a string tied to your finger leading to the surface with a bell attached. The most beautiful bell you have ever seen and the ribbon is blue, gentle, sweet, imitating the shadow shade. Imagine it is night in the cemetery and your bell is still and glinting in the moonlight. It’s a just-in-case bell, it’s a ring-if-you-need-me bell. Think about how even if it rang no one would hear because these are times and traditions lost on modern society. 

I’ve forgotten how to breathe through my lungs. I was fourteen and took singing lessons from a world class opera singer. She taught me to breathe from my diaphragm; “it’s all about control, Camille”. Now breathing where you watch my chest rise and fall only happens when I’m with you. 

It’s lack of control. It’s fucking romantic. 

Think about the Victorian era where it took several women to dress a single woman. The intimacy of sliding those lush fabrics over her delicate skin. Think about the lacing of her corset. Think about the crushing of her organs. Ahhh, imagine being dressed like that. A booted foot on your derrière as the strings pull tight about your marionette body, breath shortened with every tug but my oh my your waist looks divine, darling. 

Asphyxiation. Pressure. Submission. Think about being all used up at the mere whim of another. Think about lazily strolling through the only place on earth that takes your breath right from you lungs and then laughs at your suffocation. Imagine it’s late November, it’s cold, you’re wrapped in a mink coat. Leather gloves and a long skirt but you weren’t allowed undergarments and at the time you didn’t know why, you didn’t know where you were going. Think about laying a picnic blanket down, taking a cup of hot chai to your mouth and tonguing the rim. Think about taking that first mouthful with your eyes closed because you want your senses acutely tuned and feeling a sudden pressure on your throat accompanied by a string of demands. 

Think about the number seven. Feel it slick through your teeth, subtle on your tongue and notice how you bite your bottom lip upon overpronouncing the number. Imagine this number was significant in so many multiple ways specifically to you, to your life. Think about how often it occurs in the choicest of moments. It’s stupid but it means something monumental. 

Candlelit anything. Dinner, bath, shower, candlelit lounging lax in nothing. Music to slow our heartbeats and kisses to fasten the pace. Dancing shadows on our bodies, we watch and trace and pupils widen in the dimness of it all. The romance is obscenely present. Chokingly so. The fitting and unfitting, touching and tickling, it’s all so enchanting. 

I’m a neo-traditionalist. I have a dream where I’m your housewife. Dinner on the table at half seven ’cause that’s just when you like it. House is perfectly clean with clutter, I fuss over you but not too much. I wear my nightgown into the morning, until you’re done with breakfast and you’ve showered first. 

Think about me rolling r’s with you. Think about me in your kitchen. Imagine you open your eyes every morning and it’s my face, my stupid face that makes you all happy every time. 
Think about when you can’t sleep under the weight of it all and then think about your little bird curled around you in bed, stroking your hair and singing Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday just specially for you. Imagine waking from a nightmare and being soothed in an instant. 

Think about all the strangest things, the most taboo. Imagine being in my head, they are romanticised beyond belief. 

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