Sticky

the air between us was thick,
dripping honeyed cravings too delectable to escape our lips,
and when flesh met flesh,
it was magic,
a tragic deliquescing,
catharsis in the confessing,
bodies colliding to tell stories
no words could possibly encompass

they were sweet moments
spent with you,
so preciously self-aware,
they stripped me bare,
no room for anything but you and I,
a binged-sugar high,
that won’t quite let up

I still feel you,
sticky,
there, and there,
and there

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown

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Martyr

stone-faced, she stood there,
loading the dishes for the second time that day,
mind a cluttering of thoughts,
and she sighed,
a bone-weary and exhausted sigh,
checking boxes and crossing things off a mental list that never seemed to end

it was like every other day –
she’d just cooked dinner,
readied tomorrow’s lunches,
laid everything out for tomorrow’s breakfast,
tidied the house,
worked ten hours,
slept too little,
dreamt too much

she heard his footsteps behind her,
and with a tender hug from behind,
his arms came around her as he whispered,
’I love you’, and asked if there was anything he could do to help,
as he often did

of course, she said no;
she always said no

she knew it was crazy,
but she’d rather be the martyr;
she always was, she had to be –
it was this black tar that surrounded her heart and made it unable for her to accept help or choose herself above any other,
to let go and trust

she simultaneously didn’t feel worthy of the help, as if she had to earn love,
and didn’t actually want the help,
because he’d do it wrong anyway

so she was stuck,
always playing the martyr,
with the tar in her chest that made it difficult to breathe,
made it feel as if she were on some overbearing and perilous journey that went on and on and on,
and if she stopped,
even for a moment,
if she needed the help,
deserved the help,
trusted enough to accept the help,
if she sat down and allowed the black to crumble and wither to dust –
if she allowed herself
a breath –

she might never get up again

-art is The Martyr of Solway, detail, by John Millais, 1871.

Ablaze

with a single, brisk flick,
and a slow, deliberate draw between those inciting, wet lips,
you set me ablaze,
a deep, amber smoulder,
not unlike throwing tinder to ember still seething under ephemeral ash

the air around us is an oscillating rhythm,
a familiar pulse my body can’t help but remember,
the one that makes my belly flutter in anticipation,
a sensational humming, a rising vibrato,
a thrumming high

it is pure fire radiating outward,
a slow, but ferocious burn,
aching to be stoked by you

hovering above, there you are,
chest heaving in swells,
looking down at me, all-consuming,
addicted,
commanding me with those rapt,
hungry eyes,
in them the reflection of all I’m willing to give,
reminding me exactly who I am

I am your eager sizzle,
I am your infinite ache,
I am limitless want and wrecking need,
I am unfiltered surrender,
the slow, savored-with-your-eyes-pinched-shut drag,
inhaled into your depths,
never to leave

I am yours to balance between nimble fingers,
to inspire and expire,
over and again,
until the only tangible part of me
is where your fingers grip,
where your lips surround me,
and the rest is just smoke,
billowing in the wind

-image found via Pinterest, original source unknown

Treasure

I want you

I want the force of your wet lips against mine,
the crack-crackling of fiery tongues dancing around us,
their hungry heat howling up, up into the night,
as our midnight breath wafts in heaves and echoes amidst the cool glow of the winter moon

I want your unyielding body enclosing mine,
the safety of your arms shutting out the world,
our only witness the twinkling of the gods tracing, with precision,
the vast blackness of the night sky

I want the sturdy firmness of Mother Earth beneath me,
she my grounding as our bodies gnash and claw, becoming one,
our unrestrained spirits rising, intertwined with the heat of the passionate blaze

I want to grab a fistful of that wild, consuming energy between us

I want to tuck it away in my pocket,
a treasured remembrance I can stroke with wistful fingers,
when my heart needs you nearby

I want you

-image found on Pinterest, original source unknown; rewritten older poem

Free

she was inevitable,
undeniable;
he was drawn into her wake,
a balloon tied to her wrist

he loved her;
she filled his thoughts,
compelled his actions,
stole his heart –
he would do anything for her

he loved her,
and he listened;
he listened,
and instead of drowning,
instead of getting lost in a world
of her pain and fear,
he tried to be the map out of it

he knew her –
so there was no swooping;
he just took hold,
almost imperceptibly,
becoming the truest thing in this world
she could count on,
so that anything she did,
every seemingly trivial thing,
became like everything else she did –
free

-image via Pixabay

There

they slide in beneath the downy white cover,
and she scoots over to him,
snuggling in,
her entire length making contact,
leg draped over his own,
arm resting upon his chest,
her head pillowed onto the crook of his arm,
and her breath a hot rhythm upon his chest

he closes his eyes –
she’s so close,
he isn’t sure where she ends and he begins –
he can hardly believe the warmth of her,
and not just the heat her body permeates,
but the way her presence is this peaceful seed that plants itself deep inside him,
growing and growing,
blossoming from his center,
making him completely aware of the thereness of her

and all he can do,
is hope

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown

You Asked…

as we molded ourselves to one another,
two bodies tucked into a pocket of bunnied flannel,
you asked, softer than the moonlight whispering through the gray drapes,
“what makes you most happy” –
as if your arms were not the answer,
as if you were not what I should say

your name so fluidly sung from my lips,
and I felt your smile against my forehead,
its purpose radiating to your chest and through to your fingertips, encasing me in its warmth –
but then there was a pause,
just long enough for my own chest to rise,
as your smile changed to some unfamiliar sadness, heavy against my shoulder,
and you asked, “what about when I’m gone?”

and I couldn’t make the air leave,
I couldn’t find the words –
I just clung to you, sinking even deeper,
melting myself into your skin as I caught a glimpse of fate’s possibility,
fearing if I spoke,
my words would turn to dust,
just as I imagined my heart would turn to ash if I were here,
between the sheets,
and you were gone

-image via Tumblr, original source unknown