Silken mist becomes the shape of you emerging in my dreams and I am bathed in extending shadows, reaching for stars to place against your silver tongue that you may taste the heat. This desire is a terrible landscape laced in lavender evening lights, a tender sleep in the hollow life of the oldest trees.
Night will close against my skin in vapors, incense, altars; your body as ritual at the edges of my hands in prayer. I sit at your feet and remember who we are, the way the sun slides toward a blood red ocean and weeps. Beloved, I have broken open, exposed myself to the chaos and taken all of it within my breast, I lay wet in the hands of the smallest seed.
Witnessing my own birth, walking next to my own death, facing the entrance to hallways marked for pleasure and destruction. Fear is a familiar face at my window and mine staring back. Without the words I am unable to build the castles you seek, the earth I touch seems to fall away from the feet, but I promise you shelter of an infinite kind.
This beauty within me how she aches, wondering why I am so afraid, I am trying to stretch with ecstatic fibers I have yet to understand. You teach me faith when you tip my chin back underneath the moon that I may learn to breathe with wider eyes. To see you in the pale blue light, collar bone, scars and stone, is to shatter inside while standing still. This darkness is submersion into the light, a vortex, a baptism, an orgasm of flesh and spirit for which we sing, in praise, at length, dripping nectar from the supple tips of fingers.
This love is light and darkness, prismatic reflections side by side and I am falling through the middle, a centrifuge, a collision, the splitting of minds and corsets at their seams.
.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 