I feel him hurting
me. Already.

With cinched waists and jarred backs--
a trickle down my eye, carving out
my lips. My tongue. My spine. Your hands--
the rough carpenter of longing.
I crave to find your center--
the point of equilibrium where
two words meet and
love, and writhe and conquer.

All of me is
vulnerable and molten
and yours.

Yours is something different,
different from mine,
from his. His is more.
His is power. Is Glory.
Is light and strength
and Yours.

And what's more?
Is mine. Is our
breath. Our metronome
and the syncopated
rocking of your arms and the bed frame.
Just left
of center. Just right
on target.