He paints pictures
with his mouth
impressionistic fragments of beauty
and landscapes richly textured
layer upon layer
as he strokes his tongue
across the pale canvass
of my thighs.
I am his work-in-progress,
the word made flesh
from the palette
of his desire.
I imagine it
a glide
through iridescent softness
cruising through delicate cirrus clouds
running your palm softly
stroking delicately
over a silk sheet
maneuvering your gentle fingers
through my curled locks
your tongue on my lips
smoothly slipping
into the diaphanous covers
you permeate my soul
waiting for her
to return
and she does
every night
in the sunset
As I walk into the building
and my arm extends towards the door
I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass
and see an alternate reality,
she floats and smiles listlessly
with a quizzical stare
this other version of me,
this ghostly, spiritual shadow
has escaped my conscience
and could be anywhere right now,
the ember that flickers in her eyes
says she is everywhere
away from here.
As I lay, this night,
and the moon sneaks
through the cracks of
my blinds
I am reminded
that my life is here, whispering
This red silken sheet
that drapes my nakedness
hints of what I have the power
to ‘will’ into being
It lays across my body
like a second skin
making me aware of
what is right now
My fears of tomorrow
or the day after that
are hushed by the
luxury of the moment
this moment
This silken sheet
the crimson
that is covering my aches
helps me find
my own heartbeat
And for tonight
I am quiet
listening to the tempo
of the beat
thump
of what I am
thump
in this moment
thump
right now
