(original)
grit sand conglomerate binds
friction holding my heel steady
tottering
i snag the back of the navy lace and reinforced zipper against the brick dipped in night
save for what the street lamp would poignantly establish form to
lips seeking to traverse the topography of your structure
tongue craving your salivary essence about mine
my curls remember being dragged across, and then pressed firmly against the brick
snagging on their vertical groove and red clay
your pelvic bone ground deep - pressurized into dust against my own
seratonin and oxytocin blew as if from my palm like a handful of pixie stick dust
every acceptable neural region coated thick as if Pompeii were subdued again
the couple cuddling in the ashen grave nestles about my conscious
the delicate filaments of carbon clinging about their frame compressed densely
time perchance will compress this grit creating friction under sole

(original)
You gently pushed me into a wall with your frame on mine again.
Painted so long ago you could no longer smell the volatile compounds
Acutely confined - my frame between yours and its.
Palm frond muted light spills into the imposing window from a New Orleans street lamp.
Condensation draped into pearls collapse on themselves, and drop in unison with our shifts.
The uneven wooden floor panels echo our obsequious rhythm of physical appreciation, settled into their granular responsibility.

Your pulse embodied in your palms and hips lilts in soft gasps as I drape my forearm over your shoulder – sliding my body forward I dip into the crook of your neck finding your pulse on my nose I nuzzle.
I prop my chin into the crook of your collar bone glancing into your deepening eyes, and press my lips into the grooves of your neck as you arch into the delicate moment before reciprocation.
I do not wonder what it would be like if walls could talk; I would love to see them show impressions of those that have touched their surface - revealed in smears of paint. And further, to feel the racing pulses echoed from within of those who pressed into corridors listening to secrets of one another’s bodies.
Grind deeper, maybe the wall will record our pulse tonight, and perhaps our next encounter will entail our bodies in paint telling stories we could never capture in our eyes locked into one another in these encounters.

* written about stained glass - my dad has a Phd in stained glass craftsmanship

* Written about how my hurt seizes and aches as each memory of Eric and I comes up - 11/23/13