I don't know the terrain  of my soul.
Am I a desert or a mountain?
Do rivers run through me?

I want to see the deserts I could be.
Climb the mountains and see if I'm there,
Sitting on the peak.
I want to swim the rivers
And see if I'm underneath those rapids.
How else could I know my geography?
How will I know what I'm made of?

Yes, I may be made of hills and cedar trees
But I might want to be an aurora borealis.
I might want to be more than dry dirt
Or at least be able to try to be.

There is too much, too many possibilities.
Highlands, valleys, oceans, skies.
Open, open skies...
I want to see it, I want to see it all.
I will be satisfied with no less.

I want to know: What do I see
When I am reflected in the Thames?
Or the Yangtze River or the Mediterranean?
Would the Nile show me my insides,
As an X-Ray machine from the gods?
That girl in the Arctic ice-
Can she get out?

Killing me, or parts of me
       But only in the best of way.
Ever strong, ever open;
       when at the worst, the best.
Variable, voracious, vital
       even victorious, occasionally.
In time, consideration. In time, concern.
       Affirmation, creation, recognition.
Now only this; nothing more, nothing less.
       Now, only us.

I like most to feel your skin on my skin
Flesh to flesh- a holy palmer's kiss, but body to body.
I like next to feel your heartbeat connecting to mine.
An iron rod, bringing me to you.

*** is not, when your body heat is missing
Or when your breath isn't in my ear
Or giving me goosebumps.
I need your eyes, my eyes, locked together
Like a Chinese finger trap.

Sure, vibrations are nice
But I prefer to get them from your voice
Not from batteries.
Batteries are cold, but your voice can burn me.
And when the heat waves and sound waves combine
What other vibration is needed?

I need your warm, your hard
Strong, insistent, wanting.
Or I need your soft, your kiss, your love.
Either way,
I do not need my plastic
When you allow me that.

Like the forgotten birthday
Of a dead girl you knew once.

Like the time of a tradition, now fallen apart
With no family left to keep it together.

Like the twelve days of Christmas
Where no one notices the first eleven.

The anniversary of past love
Recently deceased.

The warmth
Of steamed, solids turned liquid
Thaws my frostbitten throat.

My solar plexus heats
Recalibrates my needs
And diverts resources.

Coffee provides what I do not receive
From a warm body gone missing.
My core solidifies, as clay in a kiln.

If I cannot have a hand to warm mine
A mug will do.
But if I cannot have you
Liquid is a poor substitute.

An open invitation-
Bring me the warmth of your skin
The vibrations of your voice.
Bring me your heart, pounding in my ear.
Bring me my release and my comfort.
Let me fall into you, into me.

The heat of a body is better than the sun
It is a sun, indeed
For why else would I feel these flares?
A black hole of comfort and contentment-
I want it to swallow me whole.
I want to fall into it
And be consumed, completely.

Perhaps inside the sun,
The black hole sings with fire.
Intangible, unknowable fire.
Perhaps inside a black hole,
I can be as hot coals.
Perhaps I can become whole.

I want to know what your favorite is
Because I think it would tell me lots about you.

Whether you care most about intent
Or style or diction or timing.
Or if meaning is your all.

And then maybe I can use that for us
And see what you notice most there:
Intent, style, diction, meaning.
When our lips touch, do you judge it by the repetition
Or by the desire?

Slowly, I will come to understand you.