atlanta falls by Katie Simpson

​atlanta falls 

he calls my skin beautiful. like it is lace, or snow, or something not merely delicate, no, nothing so wide and strong as skin. his hand follows along my ribs, light to the touch, like my roommate’s cat along my comforter, uncertain of the terrain, of what will carry of what will sink beneath his paw. 

as he touches me, i find myself gingerly reaching out to him despite my own uncertainty, the tenderness of skin and bone and the steady gravity that holds bodies together. how can i forget our impermanence? 

i hide in my laugh, large and bright. call me atlanta. i remember the boar and the blood on my hands. still i touch him, letting my breasts fall forward, golden apples. i hold the night’s empty promises, the dawn’s hard reality alone again. and the roar of hunger and frustration beginning from my gut. hidden in candlelight, still i let him stay. after all, beneath a new moon, can the bitter gods see us? can their old ways trample something so fresh, so new?

he calls my skin beautiful. and i think of lace, of something so delicate, it couldn’t be me. turn off the lights. we are still so far from ending.

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Katie Simpson is a writer and photographer based in San Francisco. Her work has been featured in Quiet Lightning, HitRecord's Body Book, and Entropy Magazine. When not writing, she loves traveling and people watching. You can find her online at: https://twitter.com/honest_creative.

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