Light drips off his chest,
and I open mine to a
feather touch inside.
Like kisses, soft lip touches
brush against the inside of
the burning of my chest.
I wonder, what would it be like,
to make love to the Ocean?
At the hearth of my home,
when I return – from traipsing through
the landscapes of my mind –
there is a fire.
And now,
it sings his name.
My calves burn,
Like the early morning skies.
And, the sea seems to laugh,
at my turned back –
It sparkles like my grandfathers eyes,
when he made someone run
right into the sand.
I clutch at this moment –
when I walk through the door-
It feels like
clasped hands
praying, in my chest.
The spaces between fingers
are smothered by slightly
sweating skin,
Unable to release their hold,
God, they are praying –
And isn’t it strange,
that praying hands,
are like two bodies making love?
Holding tight together,
skin, and bone –
all the feelings of the
never-known, little grown,
maybe –
type of love
It’s a maybe type of love.
I send a prayer
to that feeling in my chest
release me like the beating
of feather touches blessed
with
someone else’s
skin.
Can I feel that kiss,
right inside my chest, again?
Light drips from his chest – not off it –
this time,
I open mine
To that feather-like-touch
that feels like a momentary
maybe
type
of
love
Tell me, darling,
why can I feel my lips move
when you talk?
Why do your kisses grace my insides
rather than the outsides,
like they should?
Is it just
a
maybe,
type
of
love?
