Kiss

After all, what is a kiss?

Two lips on another pair;

Textured taste of thrill,

ecstasy coursing through our veins

An icecream on a hot summer's noon

Melting along the long shadows in dark deep woods

Sweet, cool flutters of butterflies

at the pit of your soul?

What is a kiss if isn't a pain

That comes alive with your being

And fills you to the brim

with something beyond

Gratitude, much more than greed

Perhaps just a tenderness in your

Being for beyond the now?

A kiss perhaps is like gentle waves

lapping at the lusty shores

Of existence, reality and the sense of me

Or could it be the music of those silent, dark nights

Your musky, warm embrace,

Crisp cotton shirt and gentle bruises?

Warm, wet, gentle, urgent

Messages to the self; here within

With you and without;

A kiss perhaps is merely then

A memory of the one that wasn't enough

Of two that became

four; and then, Just one.

Moonlit Night

Tonight's bright moonlight

throws shadows on my memories

Lighting fractals of sensual wonder

Blurring the lines of denial and hurt.

As you peer down along my precious

Treasures, picking what I deem gems

Holding them up to the lens of your experiences

Judging, valuing, rejecting, collecting

Listen to my silent plea, my love

If they seem colored baubles of 

snatched moments preserved in 

plastic; You might be right

But, let me lend you my eyes

And while you try them on,

Allow me to experience this 

Dark light of blindness 

Your form remaining a memory

Of a sweet kiss, lavender and patchouli

Soft sighs and whispers of my name

In the deep dark blue of the night

Behold with my eyes,

Oceans and galaxies

Moments and aeons

Agony of discovery

And angst of fame

Lonely afternoons

And full, dreamy nights

Do you see me now?

A multitude of selves

Each with its own life

One for you, my very being

And the rest;

Back into my box

For another moonlit night.

Hurt

Who hurt the other first?

When did we first 

see that impasse?

Unfathomable chasms

between you, me,

desire, loneliness;

My need to be held 

and your language

A sweetness of being

And a cynicism of heart

I knew in the moment you held me

That dust thou art is but a belief;

Like love, romance and life itself 

Dust doesn't return to 

where it first came from.

But hurt, this hurt?

Whoever hurt the other first,

Does hurt return to where it

first came from?

Time Wrapped Desire

As heavens open their flood gates;

Gushing forth in a thunderous frenzy 

Do they still hug this very ground?

Kissing it fluid, languid and volatile?

And when the afternoon's sun lost

its track, did he splash

lengthy shadows-half-yellow,half-crimson

Into unseen nooks and corners

of your mind and mine?

Watching this play of heaven and earth;

Every pore of my being alive and alert

to mirth and madness,

I look around for you in our half- lit room

What power do words have?

That you pour your soul bent

Over those books?

What price would I not pay

to partake of that stolen time?

Moment by moment, when the flood

trickled down,

Grey clouds of desire lightened into

Cotton whiffs of memories,

Would you ever wonder had you kept the book down,

Those words would not be sad and lonesome?

Or did you worry they would skip and run?

And like these shadows, turn and never return?

I see sometimes that this time and space have curved around

a place of yester-tomorrow

But does a day truly turn onto itself?

Devouring it's tail,

that curved eternity of the null?

Or does time go on and with it, desire?

Beyond null, beyond one?

Or Not

Perhaps when I see you again,

smiling your crinkled eyes into near oblivion, I will ask you this. 

Or not.

Does your pillow smell the way it did

When we laughed our way into it?

tasting fresh tangerines, sea water and drift wood smoke?

Skin on skin, lips adrift

in a sensuous sea of tangled senses

Perhaps when I see you again,

I will see myself again.

Or not.

See myself in you, your fingers

Entwined in mine, thoughts

Words and memories

Jumbling, tumbling.

Feet curled up against feet,

Like dried-flowers-in-forgotten-books

A hundred lifetimes curled into a single night

Perhaps when I see you again

I will live again.

Or not. 

Alive

They are alive, those moments

Fogging my multi colored mirrors of memory

With their sweet, effervescent breath;

Smooth and stark, bittersweet 

In that pain of pleasure;

A hint of red, a hint of blue

Forever swirling in the kaleidoscope

of renewal of desire and death

And here, at once they converge

Into your image, those moments

Holding my hand and its brush 

Splashing rainbow sprinkles,

Snow flakes, rose petals

Oh the sheer color of life!

They are alive in my breath,

those moments.

And in every word you write

If they seem embalmed

in amber, do not be sad

dear love.

They are throbbing inside with

a life that can be renewed in

a jiffy. Come, all it takes is your word

And they are alive,

Those moments. 

On Time

"Oh why did time have to fly so"

One of the first things you wrote to me. And I said I am glad it flies and flies backward too. Felt lighter by many years and experiences when I first met you.

How quickly time crept up on us though? 

There is no time to make any time. There is no flight in any second. Of the burdens of any relationship, is the emotional as heavy as the physical? If, so this time, time doesn't fly because it is weighted down. 

Come lets fly again. You, me, time and timelessness. You, me and a lightness of spirit.