becoming poetry (a collaboration with EC)

If you love a poet, you become poetry. Sometimes I wake up with remnants of words on the soft pulse of my wrist and think maybe he’d left them there.

I watched him stand quite still on the patio listening to the little birds. I sat a tiny bit too hard on the soft chair and put on my glasses. I continued to watch him watching their sounds. Little glimpses of the night before went through my mind. He never failed to stir my tender parts. He slipped his hand under his shirt lifting it a bit giving me a glimpse of his stomach. That was a morning thing, the hand under his shirt across his skin and up towards his chest. His afternoon thing was crossed arms and flexed muscles, usually while writing. His evening thing was art. And his art was his hands between my thighs.

If you love a poet, you become poetry. Sometimes I wake up with words singing in the back of my head and I don’t know if they are mine or if she placed them there.

I get up first and watch her sleep, the reassurance she was not a dream filling me with light. I start the coffee and go out to listen to the birds sing of sticks and yarn and fat worms. There is a story in the whistles that calls to me. I catch her approach from the corner of my eye, it is all I can do to not turn my head as she slips my t-shirt over her head. Flashes of last night play out through my mind as I choke down a growl. I know she is watching as I pretend to watch the birds. There is something torturous as she sits down but not letting myself stare as I absently touch my chest where hand, her lips had brushed. Her silence is her morning thing. I relish her quiet moments. Laughter is her afternoon thing. Where we play and talk, separate from the world we occupy. She is art in the evening, when pretense vanishes and all there is, her writhing and my unbridled passion between her thighs.

He never promised me the world. He promised me poems. He promised me evergreen trees. And he promised me his tongue on my thighs and on the softest part of my sensitivities. We didn’t linger on the future, we didn’t question the past, we equated emotion with desire and we sat quietly not watching time. You can build a world around a few hours and we lived perfectly in those times. My legs wrapped tightly around his waist and my vulnerable just as tightly between his teeth. Ribbons of silk and our sins teased my neck and we never went to confession. Instead, we’d shut the door of whatever we named it and waited to open another utopian laced magic.

She never promised me more than right now. Instead she promised me poetry. And I swallowed every bit of forever from her sensual prose. She promised me sunlight. And as that light played across her skin, I kissed the curve of her spine as if it were the ribbon of an old typewriter as I sought to infect her poetry with my desire. We didn’t promise each other tomorrow. We didn’t need to. Because in every kiss we fell into the spaces between seconds. We sat apart from it, wrapped in a chrysalis in which we were irrevocably changed by the heat of our need. You can build an hourglass to count the seconds, or you can forget to breathe as we fall into one another. She was the fires of perdition consuming my every sin, only to tease new impossible delights as we consumed each other. Our unbridled need making the faces of the clocks blush.

Obsession isn’t always bad, mine was unleashing the lacquers of lust in his eyes and the animalistic ruin in his fingertips. My lips on his anything and watching him come undone, unraveling before my eyes. Yesterday I spent the good part of the day softly running my fingertips along my thigh, tracing the words he’d written on my skin, “My storm” I now wake up tender and confident as I lie in my own sensuality. He reached over to touch my skin in the soft pink lace of morning and taste the smooth silk secrets of my sighs full of hard truths and soft hopes. It’s now the middle of the day and I’m watching his muscles flex over his crossed arms from the doorway. I see his gentle soft strokes of ink painting our language all over his notebook. It’s beautiful, it’s chaos, it’s brutal but it’s always ours. I believe I’ll always read ahead to the parts where his lips end up all over me and he’s embedded himself inside me, home.

EC and i have discovered the pure joy in our voices sinuously wrapped around one another. There is a magic in two becoming one, and she is magic personified.

8 thoughts on “becoming poetry (a collaboration with EC)

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