If I could carve up these words

into something close to

beauty

or

truth

I would shape them into nocturnal arrows

send them flying east

past Ursas of varying pitch,

through mazes of simple stars,

whose only purpose was wishing

instead of advising shepherds or

wood wanderers or

wayward cowboys,

All looking for guidance

from a careless Venus

rather than an orb of incandescence.

Underestimated in strength

her wavelengths

are l o n g e r

less visible to uncomplicated eyes

they are heat

they are combustion

and radiation

the fire of 110 suns.

a pillar of the sky

That these lines could

resonate across limitless space

strike deep with truth

remind you of your brilliance;

that you are not just a star out of place,

low on a foreign horizon,

borderline between stability and variability,

but a tempest of fire

fusing elements into substance

moving, expanding,

preparing to slough off a common shell

to unveil your true brilliance.

"I am open, like the door on a church"

waiting

for you to come in.

To speak or to silently worship,

to confess or to marvel at the

wonder,

to grant me grace

and purpose.

For a church is nothing

but a building of divine devotion,

meaningless

without a mission.

Your words are not alms,

unless you will them to be.

They are

stones and sticks,

bones and bricks,

for building up

or throwing down.

For rising high

or weighing 'round

ascending hands to sky

or

planting feet in ground.

Speak them as you would build

or break

something dear.

Do not hurl them

carelessly at

sacred hearts.

They will fracture,

tearing apart leaded veins

bleeding white light

holes

through rainbow refraction.

They are meant to be offerings

presented with trembling

hands

palms cupped heaven word

giving as they receive.

An infinite loop:

Immeasurable,

inexhaustible

and boundless,

enduring

beyond the day

church doors drift close

and prayers become

forever silent.

This is the place between thinking and feeling, when sensation is the override and being is all that matters. Tugged down into the brimming fire, deep seduction crackles, surges and bites drowning me in its intoxicating effervescence. Heady texture of velvet flesh and bone deep desire, time filled suspension of begging seconds grasping tight to the vessel that is yours sliding into mine. Swallowing salt and silken flesh, eyes blind, mind bound. Hunger filling veins to sparkle popping with high altitude oxygen, forgetting how to breathe, wanting more of your divine, content to fly in the valley of your thighs. 

I wrote my rebellion on my body

In blues and blacks

with graceful lines

and myriad shades of grey.

Marking

THIS 

as my territory with

Words and wild Totems.

God's canvas of flesh

altered to fit

the Spirit shouting

Loudly

Brilliantly

Boldly.

A

Kaleidoscope of "mine",

etched

outside

from within.

He rewarded my rebellion on my body

In blues and reds

and Pollack splattered white

Marking this

As HIS territory

With hands and teeth and time.

My body of flesh altered

To reflect our desire

His wants

Echoing my own:

Harder

Deeper

More.

A kaleidoscope of “mine”

relinquished only to him.

“I'm sick to death of women who don't smell like you.” He murmured those words into my ear seconds before he buried his nose at my nape and inhaled. Rough fingers wound themselves into the strands of my ponytail and tugged, allowing teeth access to tendons and electrified skin. The restrained press of hungry lips, followed by the scratch of three days beard. A soft bite, a long lick, then,“No one smells as close to perfection as you.”

 I shivered, immobilized by my need to allow him his fill, while saving my own memories for our next long divide.

It is a perfect night for a porch swing. The lazy loose drift of back and forth swaying, fingertips casually tangling in escaped tendrils of hair and the close body heat touches that are almost too hot, too filled with languid want to bear.

With soft evening kisses dappled across shoulders, cheeks, lips like the last rays of sun finding their way between greedy leaves. Murmured stories, easy laughter, and sighing proposals rise on the lush heat of the late spring breeze. Arms and legs brushing and winding, dancing while sitting; seductive orbits between our two bodies pulling night in closer.

The moments trickle by. One into another. Broken only by the soft sway, the breaks for breath, and the long hungry looks as noses brush and lips part...amazed by the discoveries we find when staring deep into eachother’s green.

What we could discover on that slow swaying swing in these newborn days of summer. Secluded in eachother's arms, eyes talking leaving lips for so many other, better things. Stripping back our secrets for only us to bare witness. Creating our own cadence, our own meter, our own measure of how much, and how fast, and how wild want can transform into need. Out here...in the lazy breeze. Just you and me...on a porch swing.

The seconds drop like pitch

from high to low,

so heavy fast and lightning slow,

that the increments between

when I touched your face

and now

seem millennial.

Each tight tick,

so much longer than the last,

dragging out the distance,

longing finding length

within this second and the next.

When

is all I need

and know.

Too far, too long, too much time and distance to get, go, gone

To span this mile long minute

and the next

until your voice

or smile

or words made form into heated touch

caress my face,

refuel my heart,

fill up the lows

with all that is you.

Make the seconds tremble

and minutes burn

slow and steady

hot, dark and smudgey.

Until we are

streaked with want ready,

suspended

melting

effortless.

Reunited and reborn,

together

we are deaf to time’s slow tick

Immersed in

eager mouths sipping

the endless space between breath and skin,

fractions of sounds escaping,

voices and bodies rising

rolling

calling out

as one

perfect

in pitch.