Blazed & Defused

Sacred morning bliss recounted

I could swear he has four hands, and at least a few mouths
as I lose track of
which part of him touches
which part of me.

Blending together, sensations shape baselines;
symphonic waves to wash away
any trace of guilt
and inhibition.

Free under his firm grip;
he goes further,
deeper.

Fingers forage for the unfamiliar,
then push:

Ecstasy,
tethering the edge of pain, form pulsating tides of
hot and cold,
fire and ice.

I freeze and burn.
I fly.
Soar.

I come apart and re-emerge.
Again,
again,
and again.

Surge meets undertow before the final
fall.

As waters calm, appearing still, undercurrents stir:
Tick,
tick,
tick,
through me like drops trickling on a tin roof.