Soph Bonde/Argot Magazine

Soph Bonde/Argot Magazine

I feel a little wild, a little desperate. Like I lost something or unsettled a part of myself. I'd been warming slowly

In the cold plains of my heart an iceberg cracked into the fog. 

I believed it was a good thing, to be warmed and gentled - this was an exercise in all that was not me.

I stood on that pavement with my arm in her grasp, begging to be let go as the bruise blackened. There is only so much I can give.

I stood in that room and clasped her arms to mine as she keened, half naked and flailing, pushing and kicking at my shins,

"let me run, let me run, let me run".

Let's be pragmatic: you can't hold on to something that is dissolving in your hands.

I'm adrift but I want, and I want and I find myself caught and tethered in meaningless attraction - my thoughts gone to a slow blink, a heavy breath, and a dark heat between my hips. It feels like just another kind of losing but I'm still touching myself, I'm still touching her. 

It is not the collision of us, the frenzied desire to consume, to have and possess, the underlying current of mine running my nails down your chest -

This is exploratory. It is selfish, satisfactory, and drunken. Rebound - can I erase the feel of a person with another's skin?

Dragging balmy kisses along my hairline, her own hair catching long and twisted around my shoulders. The dip of her thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of my stomach, slipping the tips of her fingers beneath my jeans to scratch her short nails against my hips. 

Where are you now? A line of guilt in the front of my throat. She bites my lip and it tastes of iron, of blood, and the tide swallow the mess of her, my saliva and my blood pulls you down into nothingness.

Let me run, let me run, let me run.

Soph Bonde is President and Publisher at Argot Magazine. She is a professional photographer in Washington DC and awkward about it. She has been described as an 'administrative machine.'