His high intellect was a whip and a chair to keep the lion of your growing independence at bay.
Cowering child,
You roared your defiance against proud deaf ears.
Now a beast grown with a pride of your own,
Your let sound your growl,
Your angry howl,
But within that defiant song can be heard the whimper of the cub that just wanted to be heard.
Stop it.
Listen and speak softly for your voice carries and is heard.
You are not your father.
You are your own man.

Two strangers exchange eternal vows. Neither lovers yet fully born.
You were more a stranger to yourself than to her.
In you she sees a mirror spirit,
More lost than found,
Lacking an identity to call your own. Her passion, a hot storm built after a lifetime of suppression,
Is released by another man.
In this and in him she begins to find herself.
You think you lost her, yet she was never yours.
Oaths sworn by the wraiths of the beings you were yet to become are not considered binding by any council of lovers,
Lost or foresworn.
You are not her husband.
You'll place your ring on another hand.

Your eyes swore to possess her as her faery beauty woke within you the imp of desire.
Fey creatures know there's magic in *******.
Her every whispered breath was poetry as you pressed your stiff need against her back.
There was honesty between you even as you lied to yourselves,
Just one more kiss, another **** another glass of wine.
No amount of pleasure could bury the wrong.
It was not your lips she kissed goodnight,
Nor your smile which greeted her in the morn.
You were her paramour,
Her poet,
Her escape from another man.
She belongs to another man.

Out of a swirl of nonsensical  
scenes jumbled
through my dreamscape
a man with no face
planted a deep kiss
on my lips
his urgency knocked me
out of my sheets
in the middle of the dark
aware only
of that aching gap
  sitting inside me
filled for a moment  
by a shadow man.

Is there anything so extraordinary as a hand?

I asked, as I ****** his finger
with a gusto hungry to milk some essence of him
that would nourish me after his body left.

Your divine digits! These brilliant explorers, who
fragile as separate spring shoots, can teach and tell and build what
would last for ever.

If a Renaissance lives, it lives in these hands , these ingenious orchestrations that can musick and paint and sculpt and-

          *-and write?

Yes darling, and that.

I migrated my tongue and attention to his palm and slowly painted his love-line pink, tasting his future.

Do you know, when I was once a little Catholic girl- they would tell their stories in Sunday School and I used to imagine the soul resided somewhere in your belly and felt like chicken noodle soup...

and perhaps not so, perhaps hands are the houses of soul where the most Authentic Self of selves resides waiting to touch, to hold, to caress... where the animal desires of humanity delight in the most truthful communication existing?

        -Then... what is the common language? Id?

Yes, perhaps you're right. And love.

His other hand, jealous of my attention, spoke aloud in a sonnet of pinches and strokes that could have drawn tears of reverence were I not held captive by the decadent finger between my lips.

Between gulps of air he queried my fixation
and with a final holy gasp I testified:

**"Darling, touch is the only transparent sensation"

the cacophony of whispers speaks again ....giberish spouts from my bloated brain ....my head is .....
rotating.. tating around the room whispering at a decibalac boom . . .  up is down and down. .  . is no left turn... drumbeats skid off my dishpan brain... i see a mark.... liqour green.... an unholy stain.... parrot like my mother squawks.... that won't soak out ... you've ruined your best brain ...
my my mind is ... listing to the right....and feels.... decidedly....  strained like ....custard bumpy..  and lumpy...... the whispers....... screams chunk about... and i ****..... awake.....sweatslicked,
drymouthed....... and ......jit...jitt....jittery...jitter...

i sit a second ...and then reach for reality .....a toddler who's had a bad dream.

Like peanut & jam,
Separate there good,
But together they
Make a tasty
Combination
Just like love...

At the last hut of the village
Lives the girl of tender age
Her eyes though love filled
Meet only the long paddy field!

Forlorn on a lonely summer noon
She hugs her image on the stream
Wishes on her way would come soon
The boy she had found in her dream!

The last hut is ever too far
But for the winds blown away
None knows if ever a traveler
Would stray to her door one day!

She hugs her image on the stream
Washes her cute rice bran face
If ever comes the boy of her dream
Finds out her last hut address!

Her heart weaves a wish upon a star
On moonlit nights in silvers’ gleam
Next morn if the boy comes to her
She would ever cage him in her dream!