When I lay in bed at night alone, I have to remember, when I think of you that way,
knit and my toes point
and everything in between reacts involuntarily to what it's like when you touch me.
My nerves recall the way you play my flesh
that turns my spine to a tuning fork
, a boiling effervescence
for my medulla oblongata
to feed to my brain. They hum an impatient entreaty
even when you're far away.
It's bad enough you've saturated my brain... You've become a touchstone for every thought, but I can manage to trick my mind with temporary diversions; voracious
reading, rapturous creativity, work... but my body just can't get you out from under my skin
. When my thoughts stray, to the tiny scar on your lip
, your spicy smell
, those eyes
that I recognize, the core of me contracts
When we go there all I am
is how you're touching me. You dictate the arch of my back, the grind of my hips, the rag of my breathing, the flit of my eyelids. I am a hopeless marionette
. Sometimes you study me intently, and your countenance is the same as when you're busy taking apart some gadget.
This thing you do undoes me, too.
My thoughts loose, evaporate, transform, unbound from their mortal coil, like swallows
startled from a power line flying away in a perfectly choreographed chaotic grace. It's a little unsettling, I'll admit, this power you have, to invoke my id
so completely. Sometimes you wonder where I am, because I don't seem to be on this plane. If it's a little death
, you send me beyond the grave to utter oblivion. My body trembles for hours under the effort it takes to gather my soul back to its seat.
And sometimes when we kiss and I open my eyes and see you gazing back at me, eyes dilated, I know how fleeting this thing we have is.
just to watch it go by.