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I Am Santo

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The carotid heat of her touch unleashes the torrid spill of his eloquence. She’s a blaze and he’s an angel in love with flesh and light, wings searing with divinity and lust leaving a bloom of charred air in his wake. It’ll storm, this reign a flood of his untamed ardor, and she’ll peel away, leaving behind her the smoke of her own seared heart. Inscribed on her softness, branded, are his concrete stanzas and she glances in the mirror and catches their ghost trace ink staring at her, captivating her and massaging her memory as his hands did her thighs. His fingers found her prone and she undulated beneath the world-defying flex of his need, her reason screaming “no,” but the bars of her prison melting, smoldering in molten iron brilliance and reduced to radiant pools of defiance that drained from her reserve. She kissed madly, her lips searching and tongue exploring the taste of his carelessness, finding it delicious. She wanted to run, but she wanted to sink her teeth into him and inhale the dark fires of his yearning, the anger of God a flashpoint about to engulf them both. The night would never know black again. She knew this, and she embraced the brightness of sin, coming with His name in a long, fevered exhale. He would hear her, but her angel didn’t flee, instead driving her down further into the soil, the stone, the core of their undoing and she unleashed all restraint as did he, daring the sky to fall, daring the stars to pluck themselves from the firmament and form themselves into denials of clemency, proclamations of independence from His rule. No forgiveness was needed, they’d decided. He with his roundly worded cataclysms and crooked grin. She with her stained reason and irresistable contours. And in every fire that burned, their story blissed the night, scaring off the cold fright of His abandonment and giving reason to the next breath and whatever dream flitted behind closed eyes, another darkness dispelled. (at The History of Flame)

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