Art of War

I awoke at dawn, rested and ready.  The sun brought light to the new day and I knew what this day had in store.  Rising from my bed, I stood with the morning’s warmth that greeted me.  Today was a good day, and I was prepared to face it.

I turned, seeing my canvas.  This would be where the war would be fought.  It was clean, fresh and untouched, awaiting the story of this struggle that would take place.  Much like a battlefield, once broken, the ground would never be the same.  Each movement would leave a print, each strike would be of purpose and leave its mark.  It would forever show the history of this battle.

As I set up, she awoke from her slumber.  Still draped beneath the sheets, her eyes watched as I prepared my force.  I saw that she was now aware of the surroundings, and I told her to remain still, to remain where she was.  The curiosity from her eyes left and now were replaced with a chaos of opposites, the desires to submit but rebel at the same time.  This would not be easy.  She would not sit mechanically, for she was full of life.  She would make this a struggle, but it was fittingly so and I would have it no other way.  She gave a devilishly beautiful smile as our lines were drawn in the sand and we froze in this calm before the storm.

I could feel my nerves uneasy.  My hands trembled in fear and excitement.  My heart beat with the thunder of a thousand war drums ringing through the sky.  I pulled my glance away from her, and looked down.  This was my brush, my weapon of choice, and like a soldier rushing in on the front line, held tightly as I unsheathed it.  I was its master, each movement was purposeful and surgically precise.  Yet, with each swipe and sway, passion and soul came from what was now an extension of my arm.

I started out rough, moving with a distracted haste, no focus being given to one particular area.  Instead, it was an attempt at tackling the entirety of her straight on.  That saw failure quickly, but no fight is without its mistakes.  I took a moment to step back, not to retreat, but merely regroup and refocus.  I quickly saw what needed to be done and adjusted accordingly.  I quickly sketched out the outline of her figure, in order to gain a lay of the land.

I fought furiously against the contours of the sheets, as they fell upon her body and embraced her, revealing each of her seductive silhouette.  Her hands held up these sheets, shyly hiding and shielding herself from me, while revealing enough of her vulnerability.  She saw my advancements and retaliated.  She moved and repositioned herself.  She was not going to make this easy.

She turned her back to me, as if to show weakness.  The desire to attack was overwhelming.  She revealed weakness but I knew to not rush in.  Victory that lasts comes to those who are patient.  I waited as the winds of war blew softly over her back, leaving goosebumps in its cold trail.  She had no choice but to retreat to her position where I resumed my assault.

Her hands were in sight.  She held strong, tight.  But I saw a moment of weakness as she lost grip for a second.  I worked quickly through her fingertips, escaping her grasp before she could regain her hold yet again.

From there, I fought my way up.  I climbed her mountains and hills.  She again made this a difficult journey.  She moved with the sole purpose and desire to frustrate me.  She hid again beneath the sheets, hiding from my gaze behind the fog of war.  I saw past, however and continued pushing forward through every curve, up until I reached the peaks of her shoulders.  I peered upward.  There was no time for rest.  I fought through the tangles of her hair.  Although it appeared gentle, it was wild.  Here I would struggle my way through, hoping not to strangle myself on her golden locks.

Soon, I would escape this ordeal as I found myself on her lips.  She bit on her bottom one, as if to feign her surrender, but I knew to continue on and not yield to her tactics.  I knew her taste but could not let this be my undoing.

As the sun began its retreat from the night sky, my battle would soon end.  It now saw the epic climax, my last remaining task.   I finally reached her eyes.  Here is where I would try and conquer them.  These were deceitful things, showing both beauty and grace while hiding pain and suffering.  She hid her pain well, but beneath the lies, I saw the truth.  I would find it and draw out the love that lay deep within.  As hard as I struggled to encapsulate her soulful stare, she remained a mystery to me, ever evasive of my sword, of my brush.  The last brush stroke made its final mark.

That was it.  The war was over.  I was free to finally breathe.  Despite my relief, there were still no victors here.  I took a step back in what I would see as defeat.  For I did not capture her soul.  How could I?  Like many soldiers know from returning from battle, my canvas revealed only the scars of this war.  As hard as I tried to, I could not capture the passion of her spirit, the wisdom in her eyes or the love of her heart.  But like the many soldiers that return home, I look proudly at my canvas, as if these were scars earned in the midst of struggle, in the heat of battle.  The remind me what I fight for.

There is no qualm in coming away without victory, for in these hopeful eyes I see no defeat.

[originally written 3/17/2013, edited and revised 2/8/2015]

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