bodies

I may be a shade too wise these days to try to love anyone into being whole. But when I hold you, left arm secure around your hips, I lay my right hand over the hole between the chest plates of your carapace and I pray to that gap, because the body in my embrace is a sacred map, an aperture into the lush green hedge maze behind your eyes, and I will show you as I lose myself in the twists and turns of its parts unknown trusting only the curves of your clavicle to find my way back home. I heard you speaking my language across the chasm and promised myself I'd find the source, found you and got distracted practicing with you a thousand other practical misuses for mouths I'd have eventually figured out for myself. So it must be something deeper drawing me out of myself when I'm fondling the aching shadow of your breasts in the absence of a casting light so that a shy smile flickering blissfully across your slightly parted lips mid-kiss is all it takes to push me over and make me gush enough to fill you, spilling out sounds I've only heard in my dreams, both our heavy breathing mixing to mimic the sighs of gods invoking goddesses and goddesses creating gods.