my attempt at keeping cool is seen through my shaking hands,
restless knees, chewing nails while your head rests soft
on my stomach after we have made the most beautiful love,
with the music blaring and heavy breathing.
the kind of dipping into tasting, throbbing,
the instantly mind-bearing eye contact that allows
for faltering nerves and unkempt words to pour out
of wavering lips sent world-spun by your lucid strokes
upon my skin. i am sure you can see it all
in eyes that water with pleasure-bliss and acknowledgement
of the hateful temporary.

but with this time so dearly-spent,
i cannot help but notice the poetry i so often find in you.
the length of your eyelashes as your lids heavily close,
the need for memorization of your weathered palms,
the familiar sand-paper scratch of your beard surfacing
lips and chin and neck and chest, throat to stomach
collarbone to thigh. the ecstasy of two.

the reincarnation of that one climactic moment
where your face contorts comicly and i bury my face
in your shoulder, watch your muscles vibrate and hear
your voice crescendo with the acknowledgement
that history has been made upon these blankets,
war has ceased and passion has prevailed,
and there is no question regarding the unjust because
for that one instant everything is pieced together
in a fitting fashion immediately understood.
there are no words that give descriptions of such times,
we must simply accept the reveling in senses
and try not to define the simplicity of complex desire.

and in your hands i swear i have seen planets crumbled,
rivers drained, mountains moved, and disasters averted
with the placement of those palms upon them.
i know this because so often have you laid them upon my skin
and given the world a sensibility never before achieved
until your fingers spoke to my conscious delusions,
calming the eruptions of before-storm catastrophes.

and simply, you are the verse i must anticipate
writing down and remembering always, so as not to
risk the chance of ever letting any one moment
of our visits, few and far between they may be
sift through my fingers to become the powder-ash
settling on book-shelves you don't care enough to dust.

you will forever be the anticipated poetry forming on my tongue.
you will never be my dust.

01/16/2006

Posted on 01/16/2006
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