Love, Lust, and Sight of Self

Expectation is a prison and I am a willing prisoner -

Hoping always for a magnified version of mundane reality,

always casting my pearls before swine. Except for you,

you are

the exception to the rule.

At least that is what I told myself

the first time you kissed my back, palms down on biege carpet

(decidedly roomier than the shower).

You trust me with a vivid rawness.

You ask if I have ever been so open this quickly as if it is a virgin experience for you too -

Are you so innocently swept away by the opening to my baggage,

or are you a sly silver tongue like everyone else?)

I hope that for once you are someone whose intentions

are in the right place - in the vulnerable seeking of another, not between your own legs.

(Even though I admit fixation to our love making.

I love the smell, taste and feeling of your skin

as you hold me, clean and soft,

and I feel like I deserve you

for once.)

Do I really deserve something that feels

like the beginnings of love? Of course I do.

I am human. I am being; but I hope

you do not disappear so suddenly

like the rest of them.

How beautiful it would be for us

see our intangible creation through to completion (as a figure of speech and manner of speaking)

and I hope that one day I can wake up next to you with light pouring in through slatted blinds

certain that you are absolutely mine; but here I am

as a rabbit heart - weak for you

already and ready to tremble for and with you

at any given opportunity because

I am so desperate for a touch of something on fire...

something that electrocutes the molecules in my blood,

bones, my brain, my nerves. I never said I do not yearn for

the aggression that comes with your sex.

I want the arches and contours of your torso to piece together

with my back and I need to feel the calculated pulse;

but I yearn much more for simpler things.

Hand held,

lip bitten upon sight, unapologetic staring.

You are my first pure addiction -

if there is such a thing.

Not tarring

my lungs

or scumming up

my teeth

but you are peeling away

layers of my heart

and in that sense you are corrosive,

rusting away at my metallic barriers.

The logical goddess in me throws smooth stones into the gears of my mind.

STOP.

I left other loves behind so that I could become strong

so that I could work

and make money

to eat

live with

and wear

while I craft words to better myself with; and I think that above

and beyond all things that is the greatest gift a

woman can give herself: the gift of freedom and

command

wielding a mermaid pen

and an open will, facing the bright brilliant sun and

heeding the words of a mother dead but never

forgotten.

I am my own whole.

I know I am

because no matter what happens I am able to see life sparkling,

all that it offers and takes away.

You must be a muse unattributed to my work.

I must learn to create with

or without you.