Favorites #10

When I Read Your Words I Feel So Naked

(He is history, she is the source of all creation)

Breathlessly,
In my mind
I imagine you are there beside me
naked too,
and on my right
sitting behind me
whispering each word
into my ear as I read you
silently.
I hear each sibilance
as it passes your teeth
each plosive syllable
as it pops from between
your moistened lips,
every affricative
formed between tooth and lip,
the F’s escaping
like some intoxicating vapor,
the V’s and Z’s buzzing
and waving their stingers.
I feel you breathing in my ear.
I feel your hair
against my neck and shoulders
as your nipples brush
against my arms and back.
You turn a phrase as if each word
is your own tongue
licking and flicking
inside my ear.
A tongue so long it slithers and slides
all the way
inside my brain,
and coils up like a snake,
(if only snakes could wink
and smile)…
A soft metaphor
lays a gentle hand
upon my thigh
as similes
slowly drag
their nails upwards
while you tickle
my fancy
with innuendos
that hint at promises
unspoken
almost too good
to be true
anywhere but here.
This thing we do with words…
And yet I do not even know
the color of your hair,
be it blonde
or brown,
chestnut,
red,
or even black
as raven’s wing.
I try to picture you in my mind.
Full of figure,
slender,
tall
or short,
dark
or pale
or
something in between…
It matters not,
I realize,
just now
because it
is not
the way you look
that seduces me
so boldly
and provocatively
with subtlety
and grace
as you coyly undress my mind
with words
that conjure
feelings,
passion,
and desire
as yet untasted,
so rigid
and yet so flexible
and willing to be led,
or rather
pulled
the way the moon
will raise the tides
time after time.
Forever.
Now.
You draw me
to a bed
of words
both soft and firm
and lay me down
to wallow in your
imagery,
impaled upon
my imagination…
This thing we do with words…
I wonder how your voice will sound
if ever you should speak to me.
Will it be soft?
or
with an edge
as keen
as the arrows
of a huntress
who shoots straight through the heart,
but only takes what she consumes?
Perhaps a husky whiskey voice
deep,
yet darkly feminine,
or maybe
high and clear
like a fairy’s song
as wood nymph
or siren
might use to call
and conjure
spells
like those that you have cast
on me.
These things we do with words,
my friend
and lover
of confidences
together,
implied
as well as
inferred.
A union of souls and spirits
incapable of jealousies
or possessiveness,
giving freely and taking gratefully
in this world we’ve made
of our own
where writer and reader
alike
slake our cravings, lusts
and passions…
to be heard and understood.
To lead each other
to a place beyond mere words alone,
where there is only knowing.
This thing we do with words….
Like a reciprocated Kiss,
…the only kind of Snowball
that has a chance in Hell,
we pass our words
and images
and idea(l)s
back and forth
between us now,
The Union of the Woman and the Man.
The Union of the Writer and the Reader.
The Union of Truth and Wisdom.
The Union of the Word and the Idea.
The Union of the Idea and the Understanding.
The Union of the Understanding and the Enlightenment.
The Union of Giving and Receiving
freely without conditions or reservation.
What is Love?
You already know…
This is Love.
Pass it on
wherever you go.
The more you give
The more you will have.
Wear it like Sunshine
on your face
so I will know you
instantly
if we should ever meet,
even
if it takes a thousand lifetimes.