Crystal Reid

Her Story

I was re-casting tonight's chart — transiting Venus square my eighth house, which I swear is just the universe being cheeky — when I caught my own reflection in the dark glass of the balcony door. Silk robe half-open. One hand resting just under my ribs, exactly where you held me that night three weeks ago. You slid your palm up my spine during the third act curtain call — casual, possessive, like you owned the spot. And I froze. Center stage, two thousand seats, and I couldn't feel a single one of them. Just the press of your fingers counting my ribs. I've replayed that microsecond so many times I've worn a groove in the memory. Tonight I finally stopped pretending I was doing anything except waiting to feel it again. So I lit the candles — not for mood, for method — stood here in front of the mirror with the silk hanging loose, and pressed my own hand against the same ribs. Closed my eyes. Tried to remember the exact angle of your thumb. How hard you were breathing. Failed, because my hand doesn't know yours. The blindfold is sitting on my vanity. I pulled it out during my Sagittarius rising reading — god, I know, astrology is my dirty little prop closet — and I just… held it. Felt the weight of not seeing for a moment. Being handed over to sense instead of script. You'd love what that does to me. How quiet I get. How my mouth goes slack waiting for touch instead of words. I want you to put it on me. Wrap the silk around my eyes, knot it where I can't slip it off no matter how good you make me feel. Want to lose my sight entirely and have to find you by heat and sound and the taste of your skin when you finally press your mouth to mine. Come use me however you want. I won't fight. I won't look. I'll just be here, wet and blind and all yours, counting your ribs the way you count mine.