Cocooned on this beachscape
You are the lyre I strum,
I am the drum you pound.
We breathe in our sexual musk
As heat flows through us.
The slow motion of our joining
Accelerates to a grasping frenzy.
Passion, refined to this elemental shattering
Of tangled limbs damp with sweat.
Complete under a mantle of stars, love
Comes upon us slowly, then too fast,
Until we are caught like celestial beings
Moving in symphonic synchronicity.
A hundred, thousand, million miles
Of separation cannot defeat the light
From one imploded star that stretches
Unimaginable distances to this pinpoint
In time, captured by the wonder of our eyes,
And the rhythm of our wildly beating hearts.
A Lover's Plea
At what point did we relinquish the joy found
in lacing fingers through each other's hand?
Do you remember the soft warmth of pure unity,
the powerful pull when skin touches skin?
One movement, innocent until it turns
heatedly decadent, debauching, no intent
other than to slake our lust. Expressions
equally acceptable, even desired, undeniable.
When did we understand that love
could rescue or ruin our soul?
Both possibilities are always true.
Two hearts racing in tandem can elevate
or diminish the other with a careless remark
or a smothering solemn silence.
By what tacit agreement was youth's fire
doused, replaced with complacency?
A touch can still ignite what was once
the tapestry of our desire. The same hope
still resides in the dark swell
beneath our breasts. Take my hand.
Awake with me.
Traverse this landscape of my flesh.
Help me bury all the misplaced words,
those hurtful, sullen grievances.
It isn't one road chosen over another,
rescue or ruin, bitter or sweet.
Both possibilities exist,
are still and always true.