Dirty work & translations

Shhh. A whisper trickles down the side of her neck, a beckoning finger tracing. New domains. New rivers forming.

Synesthesia at its finest. Bite down. Don't peek.

But she must. 

What's under there? Before she knows it. Gust of wind, brief, sweet - almost confectionary. Everything shifts. This is what this space is for. Alone. Discovering. Asking the questions. Confronting answers.

It's dirty work.  You've got to poke. Dig. Move.

There's sweat involved.

Sticky. Heart pounding. Brow furrowing. Grime. Under shade, yet lit as sun. Full of sighs. Collapsing in on herself.

She likes some of it. She's scared of more of it. Too exposed there.

All these ancient feelings. Untranslated and lost. Swallow the fear and let it sit on the balcony of her throat.

Take a hit and pass, because it'll be here a while. Let the translation begin.