I get lost in your kiss
                   Yet feel at home on your **lips

There is
a ripeness
          pending.
It stares at
me in the face,
          unblinking,
like an animal
ready to pounce.
It drinks in
my psyche,
             my blood
pumping
in its wild, tender veins.
It soaks up
the vitality
           clamoring
within me, like
a tornado
about to break force,
winds gathering
tightly under moonlight
a cosmic dam about
                      to burst.
It is a spell
cast into wilderness,
pristine and untouched,
yet longing for fulfillment
an undoing
of the senses
a subconscious unraveling
that journeys into
            unknown vistas
                with no map
Perhaps the
only real guidance
is each fine-tuned
          sensibility in turn:
Eyes taking in the colors
within pulsing electricity
as they merge
             and re-separate
into distinct tinctures
of luminosity  
Ears welcoming
the instruments
        of our bodies
as they writhe in tune
with acoustic passion,
hearing the cries of
wolf and owl whispers
          of trees deeply
reverberating into nightfall
Smell, to inhale
the muskiness of earth
the salt of sea
the crisp dusk of fire
and your pinelit, animal scent
                           familiar yet far
tracing me to you
like predator to prey
in magnetic vortex
  Touch,
                 to hold the
strands of my being
in place, steadied
by mahogany and silk
soft and solid at once
as the rhythms of storm
                 rock the house
And then:
Taste
to lusciously peel back
the layers of
             our essence        
letting them brew
in their own juices      
as they gather
  upon the tongue
in an effulgent stream:
sweet merging with salt
      pleasantly sour and piquant
with understanding
whetting appetites
in a sumptuous feast
         of enlightenment
that only shows us how,
in both primitive and
             ethereal awareness,
we had known this
was going
to happen
       all our
             lives

I can't remember where or when or why, but I do remember thinking
"if only I could be like that,"
"if only I could have that kind of life,"
"if only I could behave and act in such a way that was a better reflection of my own deep down as-of-yet unfound ideal personality type,
as a better version of myself; the me I want to be but can't even imagine being:
then I'd be happy."

Come to realize that I have become that version, but just as I've changed, so has my own ideal version of what I could be (which is to say, that despite achieving vaguely recalled dreams, I'm still not happy.)

It's like running a race against yourself,
surrounded by wraiths of what you could-have/once-were/will-one-day-become running in the other lanes.
The trick is to close my/your/our eyes and meld them all together;
the key is to maintain this pace.