Gently, gently, gently, lover, over and over it seems I am new to my own anatomy, just learning how to breathe, how to behave and temper impulses, understanding where my pieces go, how to open my arms, my throat, my veins and walk in the punishing daylight bleeding. It’s not gentle enough when the nocturnal air moves his poisonous breath against my vacant, expectant skin and I need you to be softer, softer, softer still. Touch me like dark feathers sifting, falling lightly through the collecting fog and I will begin again on my knees at your feet.
Folding these hands, bending these wrists, teach me to speak with your tongue.
I am only a whisper easy to suffocate but impossible to break; a dangerous intimacy that drips inside a second heart most stab at in nightmares trying to deny. Such force, such resistance, such loss. I am the freedom of velvet ropes that bind you to tears of grateful orgasmic release. My way of living emerges in spheres that penetrate and overlap, illusions pressed against the milk white legs of a shifting reality.
May I possess you, may I enclose you, may I appear alongside of you as you rage against an open sky and become the shedding of your veils, your fears, your widening eyes. My way of dying into my own bare flesh occurs behind the command of your silence, my way of focused, curious adoration is the way a ring of sapphire candles is a beckoning portal in the back of your volcanic mind. A slip into another time and place, where pleasure is sacrifice and ecstasy thorough, to hold back is to forfeit everything we gnash our new cut razor teeth trying like mad to become.
You and I: shadows standing back to back, watchfulness reflected. When I reach for the stars I know they are birthing each other, blurring too heavily inside me and I’m trying to go home. I search in wet purple evenings for the redemption pulsing in time to the way you look at me; your every masterful movement is the closing of trap doors, of prisons, of ruby studded cages strung up against the ceiling of skyscrapers but my god, angel, how we decorate each other.
How we expose one another on the willing altars of this fragile faith in dreaming.
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Allison Marie Conway 