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you are head over heels.
i. sloane. sloane, sloane, sloane, her lips so full you could cry, her eyes so dark you could cry your sockets out. the whites of her eyes. the lips, the teeth, the tip of her tongue. your gaze is steady but on the inside you are glittering, soaked with river rock excitement that tumbles through in and of you, you are head over heels. you have long since memorized the map of her back, the lilt of her language, the thump-thump of her heart when head is pressed to chest, and every time she claps dust off her hands (you have memorized the shape of those, too) or pulls her lips in a thin, hard line through concentration, you are reminded all over of why you love her. the damp sweat curls at the nape of her neck and her black hair matted against the pillow is all you know and love, and o god do you love.
ii. when she rises, stilts her milky gray shadowed shape across the still-dim bedroom in the coldest morning you can remember, you are almost overcome with love. black fabric on narrow hips, you call her back to bed but she is in motion already, drawing you, drawing your limbs to grasp at her hands and be pulled awake. she kisses the ridge of your brow and your hand rests at the side of her face, thumb against cheek--- a hushed 'stay', but she is already up, already moving, already on.
iii. when you’re on the race track, the mouth that kisses now cusses. spits. barks orders, hand points, chipped nail polish never looked so incriminating. her mask is thrown messily over her face, a pure black streamlined shape, heat-curled hair tossed into a tangle at her neck. her cowl settles over her shoulders, feathers in place, preening like a great magnificent bird and all the same she is calling like one too, sharp through the beak of the mask. she cranes her neck back, voice cleanly cutting through clamor, talking like a chainsaw, a confusion of colors by her door. when she leans back into the cab of the wagon, her face is still for only a moment. lip twists ugly into a snarl, only a moment, and when she looks at you she blooms. white teeth slide across black lips in a grin that thrills you, the color beneath her cheeks and the pounding of foot against pedal. the engine roars wicked and twisted and all over again you’re in the belly of the beast. you are skinned hands and knees and a heartbeat.
iv. when she falls, a bad, messy fall, her arms unable to catch, her legs unable to hold, the smell of earth is overwhelming. there is no flower field in goldcliffe but where sloane sits on the back porch ripples a dust-caked ocean, green on green on green. the fleshy sound of a still growing branch breaking cleaves the quiet of the night earth and you find her there, limbs pitched forward in the dirt, yellow lamplight on her high cheekbones. there is grass soft beneath her heels and she is tearing handfuls of it out, a barely contained rage. she is soundless, hands stained as she rips at the ground.
“hey, hey— sloane, are-” your hand rests on the worn doorknob, the countless marks of hands through dust on doorframe. somewhere, a dog barks over and over. “are you okay?”
“uh-huh.”
her voice is too small for her shape. it shakes in the cage of her chest, trembling on her knees, an agitation of hands, clamoring at fresh-tilled earth.
you go back inside.
(v. when she comes inside, there are grass stains still wet upon her knees. her hands smell bitter from snapped, deadheaded flowers and all the same she presses herself to you, your back a smooth curve against her belly. her hands are too afraid to touch, feathered around your wrist, and you are overwhelmed with the scent of wet earth. if you’d asked her what happened, you’d know she lay awake the whole night, blathering, the belt cinched tight.)
vi. when it all crashes down around you you’ll still remember the smell of wet earth and trembling, grass-stained hands curled into fists, and now you are curled into her. now it is your turn to scream on the inside, inwardly collapsing, but she cradles, presses mouth against mouth, sobs openly into your lips. her black hair is pitched over her forehead and every part of you wants to push sweat-curled ringlets away from her eyes but every artery vein and capillary eyelet aches, it all aches, even still you press yourself closer. it’s warm where her flesh meets yours, where your flesh meets the spar of sick under your skin, but all you know now is the endless black fabric of face pressed into shirt and she is crying and crying and you hold one another, self-same pain on each in-and-out sob. she shakes out of fear, out of rage, out of sorrow. her eyes so black you could cry, but already you are, along with her. the worst thing of all - the shape-shaking anguish as she curls into you.
vii. when all goes black, there is you and there is her. there is both of you together, there is warmth and a silence that settles on your head like a warm hand, no blood-screaming or triple dooms. this feels safe and free and fated and it is an eternity of her, of curled into her, of head pressed to chest and the memorized shape of her face. you hold her wholeness and so does she your’s. the rustling of leaves sings you to sleep, outside the wind picks up and you feel her stir, then settle. all you know now is her, always her, everything is her.
you are head over heels, only now you are safe.