Inspiration [Personified]
Stefanie Maclin


It's a distinct function, after all. Hands rest on shoulders, and around waists. Feet move in synchronized motion; eyes never once leave eyes. Faces hover close to face, as if lips were to meet lips, a gesture caught entirely in the moment, but never do.

They gravitate to one another's arms and bodies like it's the most natural thing in world, and flit across the wooden floor, as if they've been doing this forever, as if they've been doing this forever with one another. They don't see anyone else. Only when the last note fades away, is there brief surprise: of losing something unreachable; they had forgot where they were. They hover close, clothes touching clothes, hand on elbow or shoulder or nape or waist, prolonging contact, just for little longer before they shuffle back.

And when they finally leave, heads bent close as they whisper, his always ducks just slightly, ear almost against her lips. They linger: prolonging the conversation, standing close but not touching. Because when they finally say good night, only then do they reach for the other, wrapping warm skin, soft cotton, and scratchy wool in arms, her neck nesting between his ear and shoulder, his chin buried in her hair. Neither says anything, and when they do let go, each walks in the opposite directions, and they don't look behind.


First published: February, 2009
comments to the writer: doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com