Intimacy isn’t just found in bedsheets, or between the space between mouths, it meant behind the earlobe where only secrets are kept through small tugs of listening to small breaths between where we I lean my head down like a half moon shifting through night and day, but really always present.
And when there
I only know what the river tastes like
How salt become my favorite condiment
And how the fish of skin can’t really scale
Like a playwright once said, he likes a good watercolor blur of characters
Where you can explain the form as your past your present or your future
But still understand how two bodies fit together that have never touched before
Like we’re ready to do the work on accepting passion as a reality
On our old bookshelves of life touching bodies of a different era, language even, and oh how those bodies sang tunes in a chord too minor for even Chopin to play through the keys
And maybe not everyone sips from the same glass of wine
There are even those who after a bottle is done have red chapped inner lips
And some, that fit back a cork in the bottle —- not to preserve the wine, but to recycle the evening
It’s as if it’s not about the sex, it’s about the emotion I have after, like a sheer silk curtain passing the frame of a door, transparent glass, at ease when you pull back it’s body onto a hook and it stays a while, loose like a curl falling off my face, and all the while still, confident before the nights breeze, this curtain let’s itself be held as if the shades are up, the lights are on, and not even a person standing with binoculars could ever feel as sexy in a sheer swoop of passion, playfulness, and persistence
As if we met negotiating over furniture we both want something we can write a story about — what you pay isn’t really the worth it’s what’s kept in the drawers behind the wood, carved into, like love letters from childhood unbound—
A true relation is like dancing with your feet in the dirt. Where what’s dirty can always be cleaned but tonight, the taste of the music isn’t Rhye, but bourbon by your bedside, with a large ice cube (of course), as,
And now, with my passionate Gemini, you, are the kind bandage on my right foot of cut glass, kneeling at my bedside caring about my cramped toe, you are the balance in motion to our raft, the person who takes a notebook out in a bar, who cares about others sorrows as if his own, the lover of art as if it was a real person, as if to say you would name your child theatre, playwright and director, watching them outlive the 7 basic
story archetypes plotting our real storylines staging right through every staged left comedy tragedy, rags to riches, Overcoming the Monsters (even if they are really our own) Quest, on this Voyage to Return and rebirth.
For some reason sex is an art, and even within our embraces, we are sourcing the wood upstate, refining it, breaking it down to its core to create the foundation of our canvas. Who are we without folded sheets, a duel bringing together to end with a kiss. But what role do I play in this? Are we both the protagonists trying to source a location? I felt for so long that I would never have a place, but it’s the sourcing, the build, and our creation of the art, which ultimately is ourselves.
It’s funny how cliché the art imitates life quote sounds, but yet in a relationship cycle, it’s all real, it’s all how we find each other, write our story, or even rewrite it, whether it’s at 5am alone, or on the streets of NYC crying, just wanting to be loved more than anything able to be written or held.