My sleep is a helpless competitor against the dreams of us. No matter how eager my slumber, the dreams of you grab me and command me. No matter how deep the sleep, you enter my mind and take control.
I wake at this moment thick and breathing deep, wanting you so,
as the dream undresses and takes me.
There is no control left for me, except to roll one way or the other as the blood commands, to ensure that every part of you, every breath from you, envelops and enraptures me.
So far away you are, intensifying the dream’s magic. Intensifying what one day will be real. Intensifying the vividness of what is not an illusion of sleep, but the preview of a passionate reality that awaits.
Up or not, the eyes still blink. Where are they, they say. Where is the morning? Though feet under the familiar blanket, the same pillow hugging the head, the cadence I ponder seems a tune like the warmup to the orchestra.
One can look in the dark mirror of the ceiling and see flashes of the past, the laughter of moments cueing that orchestra. Eyes can still crackle. Paths still traversed. Mountain views still inspire and urge.
Just the darkness, the dark rich taste in a full, deep, inviting cup. That is the now and that is the zen, the peace, the hope.
Somewhere you may be sleeping, sitting, stirring, springing. Your day will come and go without me. Not mine; thoughts on you, desires of us, will roam my body, halting me in mid-thought, stopping my gait, triggering my smile.
Somewhere, across still bay waters and dusty chilly mountains, the hidden light awaits.
There is no perfect world. There are perfect moments. I don’t count them; I cherish them. I demand them in this hateful time, it is part of our find to show it can be better.
The path to the light is not worn, just hidden to our distracted eyes. The trees laugh as the wind blows us off course. Yet watch their limbs nudge when we draw near that one and only one trail. They wonder, will this one find it? If so stay on it.
We refill the deep inviting cup. It always tastes its special good.
I smolder and finally feel wiser. I hear the eyes sing and the fingers conduct. The swirl of suddenness is super, the blankness of the night daring and challenging the canvas. What is next? What is next? Sketches appearing in the mind, the motion of laughter and hope reflects the dream. Still lingering are the questions of the past and the future, and if they will be to the same beat or a new tune.
We need only the songs of the birds and the sun, the worlds of each direction, each focus, possible to explore, but we don’t get caught forever in any of them. We can move on to the world that lets us play inside it with the joy we grew up with.
The artistic lines along the tropics of your arms, the side of your torso, and the shimmer on your tummy, would feel good to my palms, I know. From no limits to the delicate nuanced feelings of having skin-limits, to no limits again.
The wind becomes warm, the sky thrusts the sun, the sweetness of life is on my lips. Come close, stay close, let me be handsome again. The world knows exactly why.
it’s the second kiss that counts.
It was always her.
