The art of making a poem -
Not with words
With glance, touch and breath…
Your strong hands grace my skin,
My curves and edges,
Indulgent and pliable
Fingertips in creases,
Feeling shadow and contour,
The hot wires of my nerves;
Tracing blue pathways down my arms
Lips brushing against translucent flesh.
You might capture me;
And I am caught on your mouth
Like a fish on a hook,
Helpless to resist
As the poetry unfolds,
Like the finest silk paper
The wings of a quivering moth.
Your stubble rasps against my cheeks,
Eyes are blazing
Control is waning,
As the poem crests
Like a bright full moon,
Riding on a chariot of ragged clouds.
You send a prayer to heaven,
And your voice is hoarse
With nothing more to give,
And no power high enough
To express the heady feeling.
Melding together, joined by fate,
Waves lapping against a nubile shore,
And a million grains of sand
Cannot compete in number,
With the supplications
Tumbling from your lips.