When I lay in bed at night alone, I have to remember, when I think of you
that way, to breath.
My
eyebrows knit and my toes
point and everything in between reacts involuntarily to what it's like when you touch me.
My nerves recall the way you play my
flesh that turns my spine to a
tuning fork, a boiling
effervescence for my
medulla oblongata to feed to my brain. They hum an impatient
entreaty even when you're far away.
It's bad enough you've saturated my brain... You've become a touchstone for every thought, but I can manage to trick my mind with temporary diversions;
voracious reading, rapturous creativity, work... but my body just can't get you out from
under my skin. When my thoughts stray, to the tiny scar on your
lip, your
spicy smell, those
eyes that I recognize, the core of me
contracts...
When we go there
all I am is how you're touching me. You dictate the arch of my back, the grind of my hips, the rag of my breathing, the flit of my eyelids. I am a hopeless
marionette. Sometimes you study me intently, and your countenance is the same as when you're busy taking apart some gadget.
This thing you do undoes me, too.
My thoughts loose, evaporate, transform, unbound from their mortal coil, like
swallows startled from a power line flying away in a perfectly choreographed chaotic grace. It's a little unsettling, I'll admit, this power you have, to
invoke my id so completely. Sometimes you wonder where I am, because I don't seem to be on this plane. If it's a
little death, you send me beyond the grave to utter oblivion. My body trembles for hours under the effort it takes to gather my soul back to its seat.
And sometimes when we kiss and I open my eyes and see you gazing back at me, eyes dilated, I know how fleeting this thing we have is.
It
hurts just to watch it go by.