The danger of writing autobiographical ANYTHING is that folks think everything you write is about your life. But for me? Not. Sometimes I just want to write; take risks; share; fantasize; wish, hope, dream.
This is one of those times.
And so the desire of need and want is here In this small place between us
Atoms into atoms as your body aches and arches itself into mine.
Connected by elements of heat and liquid and gas and molecules that feelandneedandknow our
Desire for connection just
Like the dead winter limbs that springgreen leaves portending life and reaching to the sun and
Becoming Limber bendable plyable asMy heart: oh, my heart a
muscle well-exercised is
Strong and Firm and Knows
what it Needs to keep beating
under pearl-chromed hard
cage surrounding this fist-sized pinkredpurpleblue muscle of
incessant life and breath and pulse and life.
Reach up Reach up Reach out
Plate that covers the tender fragile origin of life
Because of course It is Of course it is just
from stopping and ceasing and
As we know it.
Except your life gives life to me to Mine
my heart my muscle my need for you
My heart my muscle my need for
to keep going
your limber long tendrils that wrap around me
Rubbingpullingmeeting my beat UpAndDownSidetoSide the pressure is incessant
My heart My muscle My slain
Pulse is quiet and resting next to you