(If I were writing this to anyone else, especially and most probably a woman,
it would go something like this:
**I would like to unfold you one layer at a time;
I will peel off clothing
until I hit bottom
until there is nothing between
my hand and your drumming heart
except trembling skin.**
But writing you right now is different; those soft words would feel forced, fake, hollow and pretty and attractive and wrong. I can’t tell you why but I know my heart has a song of its own
for you and if I get it wrong you know you can laugh at it.)
*Do you know how overpowering you can be?
Do you know what it is to draw a breath,
one tiny insignificant breath,
and feel my entire body throb to
touch you?
To run my fingertips across your skin
(not necessarily gently)
to press my hands into your skin until the impress -
like a flower pressed in a book -
remains.
I don’t want to peel your clothes away from you,
slow and confident and assured, (not right now).
There isn’t always confidence in want, is there?
I’d rather tear them away from you,
quest for your beating heart and the shape of
your hip and the long line of your spine attempt,
with my lips on yours,
to take your breath and make it ours.
My hands are hungry;
they feel empty, grasping, needful.
My lips are wet.
I love you.*
(I ask what I am saying and I wonder if this is weak: I want your body against mine.)