It’s quiet.
We’re simply sitting.
Nothing fancy,
No motion.
A sweet stillness
Only interrupted by a blink
To keep our irises wet.
Or, a finger lifts to tickle
An itch off the skin.
Gusts of emotion blow through,
Moments where tears seem to surge
But never fall over.
Upturned lip corners
point out the joy.
Spines rise
And chests billow
To stand at attention
To each other’s power.
It's foreign and familiar,
New and ancient.
Arousing and innocent.
Going everywhere
And no where…
Simply sitting.
Our bodies carry on with business,
Chiming in with stomach gurgles
and a hick-up.
My right leg falls asleep,
But blood still flows freely
To the most tender spots,
The hungriest parts.
My hip pops in protest
And my heart rushes
As I jostle my body.
It doesn’t want to move,
Her bowl is being filled,
Her chambers touched.
It was still quiet,
And, we were still simply sitting.
I am rooted,
but currents of subtle passion
Make all my disks dance.
Your fingers,
The ones that have only
Touched the tips of mine
Like a whisper...
firm with presence.
The pressure holds me down,
And carves out more space
For me to infuse.
Our skin is covered,
And, more than I know
is being revealed.
We are still simply sitting.
You slice the silence,
“When I look in your eyes, All I see are flowers.”
I breathe an extra half breath,
To take in your sight.
I shyly giggle to bounce around
the intimacy
that feels like a hot potato.
After all this time
of chasing, yearning, longing
To have it,
I still don’t always know what to do with it,
how to handle it,
Trust that I can
Simply let it soak through.
“What kind are they?”
I ask with curiosity,
And the playfulness of a pop quiz
To see if you really got in.
“I don’t know, there are hundreds.
All different kinds and colors.”
You drop your chin,
And rub your eyes
Slightly bewildered at what you’ve seen.
Before you can blink,
I assure you you’re not crazy…
“Oh, that’s my secret garden.”
We continue to simply sit.