Her Calm Hand to My Liquid

She mistakenly pressed against me, forgetting her last night's

intention to hate me, to hate my darkness and my dependence.

She was a bobblehead, her sleepy wagging face raised up to kiss me.

Murkiness and motion caused a squint but allowed my stare,

because she wanted me, right then, she wanted my mouth.

She was soft and languid and snaggle-sheeted, all creamy

and warm and oblivious to balance,

her eyes barely perceiving light.

And her tender lips still dancing in dreams,

soft with the dawn's blush

full petals blooming sweet awful morning breath.

A slight flash of calm before her limbs could sense any ache,

the natural grace of skin floating with cotton and air,

You can't be human and not get a little shaky touching your fingertips

to her sunrise curve.

This is morning.

This is waking.

This is paintbrushes touching oils upon my canvas,

fingertips smoothing the jagged scrapes of my silhouette,

daubing color and contour over my shadows.

Her hands smear indigo over my blues and

smash my bottles to dust

adding light to hollow hours of darkness.

A warming morn encircles my dysphoria,

stilling the nocturnal melancholy

which haunts us both.

This is morning.

This is waking.

This is breath exhaled moist,

a hand upon the microphone as the lights pop bright,

then the voice, words sung splaying my core.

Her voice enlivens me. It harms me.

The soft aching note with a subtle crack changes everything.

Vulnerable with heartbreak, sensual with want, choked with despair---

it stirs me. It breaks me. That voice...

I am raw. I am cleansed.

This is the origin of grace.

Her body

Her face

Her sleep

Her calm...

This is the origin of crying.

Reviews

[Cobblestone Traveler]

This is so refreshing and sensual. You perfectly describe the way we can naturally amplify ourselves with color and warmth. There is a purity in raw passion.
"This is paintbrushes touching oils upon my canvas,
fingertips smoothing the jagged scrapes of my silhouette,
daubing color and contour over my shadows.
Her hands smear indigo over my blues and
smash my bottles to dust
adding light to hollow hours of darkness."

I really enjoyed this.

[Chris]

I paused here and read this aloud...
it in turn paused me. I could see the images form behind my eyes.

[Crowley]

This gave me goose flesh. The real was and the vapid desire that morning can bring. The writing is exquisite, and the subject matter intoxicating. Absolutely loved this!!!