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CAVEAT
There is a place called |
August 03, 2005
The slightest touch can create a mastery. You can. To me. There are lines dotted by the cool, misty dew drops of your memories ready to fall at the slightest movement. Lines like the ones that streak from your shoulders ending just above the swell of your breasts. A creamy lather of skin that waft of salt and honey exploding into a searing tenderness. At night while dressing, you trace it, catching my eye, calmly moving down. Just down-- into the edge, dangling between the crevice where I bury my face night after night. I want the contours of my face to mark permanently, the space where the trapeze of your exhalations swing from one breath-stopping arc into another. I have built my sand castle around these four walls. Burying my toes on the grainy texture of the sheets, with sensations spanning every imaginable pore. While watching you sleep after the sun has risen-- I hung suspended in mid-air. A reverberating note that will not end until every last sound is yielded to the touch of fingers that own the music. blue rogue |
