Jan 2014
You gently pushed me
into a wall
with your frame on mine again.
A wall –
Painted so long ago you –
could no longer smell the volatile compounds
Acutely confined - my frame
between yours and its.
Palm frond muted light spilled
into imposing window
from New Orleans street lamp
Diffracted in dappled condensate orb.
Condensation drapes into pearls - collapsing
on themselves, and dropped
in unison
with – our - shifts.
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 body forward - I dip
into the crook of your neck
finding your pulse on my nose.
I prop my chin into
your
Collar bone crook
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 feel
racing pulses echoed
within those who pressed
into these corridors --
listening to secrets of one another’s bodies.
Grind deeper,
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.
into a wall
with your frame on mine again.
A wall –
Painted so long ago you –
could no longer smell the volatile compounds
Acutely confined - my frame
between yours and its.
Palm frond muted light spilled
into imposing window
from New Orleans street lamp
Diffracted in dappled condensate orb.
Condensation drapes into pearls - collapsing
on themselves, and dropped
in unison
with – our - shifts.
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 body forward - I dip
into the crook of your neck
finding your pulse on my nose.
I prop my chin into
your
Collar bone crook
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 feel
racing pulses echoed
within those who pressed
into these corridors --
listening to secrets of one another’s bodies.
Grind deeper,
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.
(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.
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.
