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Let's play a game he said. And I agreed. He called it possession and the possession was me. Maybe just this one night I'll let Mr. Arizona possess me. I might call him sky when we are all together but secretly when he touches me, touches the heat of my skin and the lust that drips along my legs I call him Mr. Arizona again. It's a vile game we play where he lights a fire on my skin and I call him Mr. Arizona, watching the fire burn within his eyes when I moan it again and again. It's lust. That's what Mr. Arizona means. Just that single word and in different names as we play different games but tonight he calls it possession. Not another game of lust. He invited me to be won. To be possessed by him.
Sky sat at the window of a café facing the road watching the soft pitter patter of the rain soak the streets. Ever so often his eyes would seek a face among the countless that passed as he mindlessly twist the unlit cigarette.
“I want to look at Paris when it rains. Wearing nothing but the scent of your skin knowing I am loved.”
Her words echoed and a gnawing guilt ever so slowly burned under the surface of his skin. He was here again, chasing her. Knowing all Sierra ever wanted was to be loved. For him to look at her the same madness that drove him to Aiyana. To look at her the way he once did when he watched Aiyana hold their Beatrice in her arms. Like poetry. Like Gravity. Like air. Knowing beyond doubt that this was home. She was who belonged.
He remembered when her brown eyes shone with unshed tears as she pleaded for him say something. Just anything to make her stay. Tell her lies because she wanted them to be true. Knowing even then that Sky might see the color of her hair, but never her eyes. She had her hair after all.
Red hair.
But where she had brown hers were green. And she knew without a shadow of doubt all he ever saw was green. Sky had never seen beyond the mosses of green. Never heard another voice that wasn’t soft like a lovers whisper. And she knew … she knew when after what had felt like days he had not said anything that she could drown herself in a bottle of her perfume that she would always be nothing more than this. Brown but never green.
And here Sky was in Paris in the rain. Watching the people walk on the streets and cars drive by. Watching the city bathe in love chasing again. Going after her like he should have when he first understood that she was poetry.
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