Sylvia at Ninety

By the time you were thirty you were three for nine, you got better with practice. Like the still lives that lined an artist's trash you practiced your art, embracing death with similes, metaphors, arms and legs. At ten, it was accidental, later it wasn't. You used up lives at the rate of one per decade. A cat has nine, what about you?

If you painted, I wonder what color your world would be each step along the way. Did you dream in color or simply lose yourself in muted shades of gray? What fantasies did you dream of in the cloudy gray days of your dreams?

I could have been there, could have dreamed with you. Yes you were older, but that couldn't matter, my hands would forgive the wrinkles, my tongue curl around the sags, and my lips would kiss the years away. And then you'd read you poetry as I unbuttoned your blouse, and carefully reached behind you to unfasten your bra. Ah, your breasts, soft, deliciously curving, falling into my hands as I bent to take your nipples into my mouth.

You'd read of a cut, the pain and blood, but as I unfasten your pants, I'd draw the pain away as I slide my hands into your panties and run my finger down your slit. Dipping them into you pussy, I'd feel the wetness of your passion and then move the fingers back up to your clit, circling it in you own juices.

The poems would be shorter then, your rhythm more pronounced as you moved your hips back and forth, pushing your clit onto my fingers. You'd read of daddy as I pulled off your pants and panties and I'd wonder about the timing of your poem, my head tucking up between your widespread legs. You'd read another daddy poem as I push my face up to you and shove my tongue inside you, tasting you.

Grabbing the soft flesh of your ass, I'd run my tongue up and down your slit, moving from the wet opening to the tiny nub and back down again. Your taste would stay with me, earthy and slightly tangy, your fragrance filling me. I'd feel your hand on my head, drawing me to you as you drop your poems and then grind against me, moaning the moist, verse of your climax.

Then, you'd kneel as I stood. Your hands would find me, gently squeezing my hard cock before moving to my belt, opening my pants and pulling it out. I'd watch as you draw me slowly into your mouth, running your tongue over the head as you stroke my shaft with your hands. Leaning back, I'd push my hips forward, wanting you to suck me in deeper. You'd tease me with your tongue, your lips and your fingers, bringing me close and then moving to my thighs as my cock twitches, begging for your touch.

You'd pull down my pants and then stand up and unbutton my shirt, leading me over to the bed. Once on the bed I'd watch as you open your thighs, showing me your beautiful pussy. Crawling closer, I'd watch you guide me into you and I'd feel the moist, softness of the very depths of you. Thrusting into you I'd listen to you recite your poems as my cock moved in and out of you, quickly exploding in electric sensations of pleasure as my cum spilled into your pussy.

I'd fall on top of you, catching my breath, kissing you until my cock finally slipped from your body. Then, as you recite a poem of our bodies, I'd feel you drift from me, your voice becoming faint, your body slipping from beneath me, your beautiful face fading into my dream. I'd then see you outside, your hair flowing in the breeze, your thighs clamped tightly around the horse, your horse.

Ariel, Ariel, that blithe sprite of iambic fantasies, did you dream of disappearing on her fairy wings when you conjured her name or was it just a pretty name for your horse? I imagine you as you gallop, embracing Ariel as you had embraced me, and later as you embraced your art of death. You were so good at that, so practiced in the art that I was shocked when the devil lost count and took you on your fourth life. You should have lived on, if only so I could touch you, kiss you and listen to your words.

Instead, it was three times by thirty, a decade, a life. With nine lives you should have lived to ninety and I wonder what volumes you could have filled by ninety, had you not gone silent. I wonder how we would have met and later made love. I imagine you at ninety: practiced at the art of life instead of dying, I'd watch you spread translucent wings and ride Ariel into the sun, her hoof-prints disappearing in your silence.