It goes back to an idea I had long ago, you and me, in a small A-frame cottage with a little outdated and antiquated kitchen on the ground floor that looked like something from an old dollhouse in 1963. It was as if this place had been sealed in a time-capsule and nothing changed, nothing had been updated, and its previous generation charm had managed to remain since the time it was built. The couches are the same, the small bedroom is the same and the paintings one the wall are the same as well. Nothing has been altered and perhaps this is what makes the cottage perfect to me
My idea is this:
The weather outside is cold and freshly fallen snow blankets the Earth to reflect a shade of blue from a full moon in a newly cleared, nighttime sky. Although the air is cold and the wind is fierce enough to whistle, inside is warm, what we have is all we need. There is no sound from any outside source. All we have is the sound from the fire stone fireplace that crackles from the flames.
There room is otherwise unlit and the firelight causes the shadows to flicker against the walls. The room is an open form; the bedrooms are behind us and the kitchen is to the left of the couches with a dining room table in the center of the room where an old typewriter is there, awaiting the finishing touches on a novel I’ve dreamed about but at last, I’ve finished it.
The wood trim is a dark sort of mahogany and the look is very rustic. There is an upstairs and a staircase, which leads to it; however, where we are is fine and there is no place you or I would rather be.
I imagine us on the floor with pillows and blankets—a sort of indoor campout, so to speak, and as we lay still, we breathe in with a sense of ease. We inhale with a sense of success because we have successfully detached from the struggles in the outside world. We’ve separated ourselves from the intrusions of technology, put ourselves away from the ringing of phones, the calls from pressing emails which need our attention, and we’ve removed ourselves from the world and isolated ourselves in an insulated plan to do nothing else but enjoy each other.
The way the fire reflects in your eyes is warmer than the flames. Your lips glisten and your slight smile welcomes me closer. As I lean in to kiss you, your eyes close. And when I kiss you, I find it remarkable that you are the one who found this place. I had been here before as a small boy, which you knew, and somehow, —you found this very same cottage because you knew how much this place meant to me.
This is love, I tell myself. This is what I’ve always wondered about and all along, it was you. You were the one I was waiting for. You were the one that would make all the difference in the world. You, —it was always you.
I can feel the warmth of your body beneath me. I can feel the soft swerve of your body as my hand guides up your side. I can feel my heart beating fast like a drum and the sound of quivering breath n my ear as I hold you closer are enough to stiffen every inch of me.
It was you. It has always been you.
It is you that make me feel this way. It is the sensation of me entering through your gates and passing into your body; it is this that I want and I want nothing else.
I want to turn the world off now and be here in this place. I want to lay with you in that cottage and make love to you on the floor. I want to see the silhouette of your body’s shadow on the wall as you climb on top of me in the darkness. I want to watch your shadow move, up and down, and see your naked shadowy figure against the fire-lit wall. I can see the shape of your breasts and watch as your hands rise up to grip them as you rock back and forth upon my body.
I swear, it is only you that can make me feel this way; strong enough to take on the world, unafraid, and uncaring of what comes next because so long as I have you, —it wouldn’t matter what came next.
Switching from top to bottom, I would move you down in one quick motion, placing me on top of you and putting you below me. I want to see you. I want to watch your face change as the passion fills you; I want to see your eyes roll back while the moment comes closer, and when they do, I will know I’ve accomplished something better than a dream.
Your legs wrapped around the bottom of my back, my hands at the floor, supporting my arms to push me upwards as I hover above. You can see it in my face. You can see my intensity and you can certainly feel my energy. More so, you can feel my love. You can feel every inch of me and this pleases you most because you understand no one else can ever have me or make me feel this way.
I go back to an idea of a place in the town called Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. I think about a place on Rimrock Drive and breakfast we shared at an eatery called The Scotrun Diner, which (again) has a that hasn’t been updated since previous generations.
Most of all, I go back to a snowy morning; I go back to the completion of my first published work. I go back to a struggle we fought through and you and me against the world. More so, I go back to the way we made love in a way so hot that we nearly melted the fireplace.
Of all things in the world a man can hear, there is nothing more beautiful or victorious than the sound of his woman’s voice during the onset of an orgasm just before she arrives and says, “I love you.”
I go back to the beginning of a poem I once wrote about this place.
Take this from me . . .
. . . It is everything I have
It is everything I own . . .
. . .and now it’s yours