Herbology (E)
His body is my garden. I pick stones out of his broken earth — a past we cannot fix but must move on from. He trusts himself to me, and so I tend to his lands as if my ability to nourish myself is dependent on his pleasure.
I nurture him to rise to my caring touch as if I am the sun. I put him to bed before the winter snows come so that his next days and years will be just as yielding as the present. I scratch furrowed rows across his back before planting seeds with my pursed lips. With nurturing care and the gentle heat of summer, they will grow from the merest idea into a future.
The sweet kiss of my hand on his cheeks makes him glow like flowers blooming in spring. A rosy blush across his cheeks invites the promise of something more to come.
In summer, his fruit is juicy and ripe. I dig into his tart flesh, ravenous. My tongue explores his tender pit, and he cries with the softness of a dove.
In autumn, then, when it’s harvest time, I recall his desire, grown plump in my summer’s sun. I collect seed for the spring to come, and I spin his flaxen hair between my fingers as if I will weave it into a shroud to protect us from the cold.
When the sleet comes, the bitter stinging air brings rose to his cheeks, even through the thickness of his striped scarf. I hold him tight in my arms to protect his roots from the frost.
The pink of his blush is the only colour I can see in the grey midwinter and it makes me long for the spring again. I can find it hinted on his lips and in his mouth and deeper still, in the beating of his blood-rich heart.