whoever in this world
that does truly believe in a version
of love birthed from bitter duplicity
has my sincerest sympathy.
they don't speak of this, i should think,
this ever expanding gallery,
a person, place, and precedence through which a mortal
critic walks
and touches glimpses of her own infinity.
these are fine frictionless formalities blended into sweet familiarity,
seamless, and all encompassing in their artistry-
every act a study in dark rooms, staircases, skin, and sanctity.
this is the rival of ballet, crueler and less cruel.
as demanding, and as rewarding,
and achingly resounding,
unrehearsed but so divinely executed,
bordering on ritualism.
this begs to be put into words
the same way he begs to be exploited by me
with his throat to the open air, his lips apart like the waves of the sea,
and how they beg to be crashed into.
and oh, i've written him already into the corners between my fingers,
soft fistfuls of hair the color of caramel and obedience,
coarse collars of shirts that smell of the absence of resistance.
and oh, oh, oh, to be breathing,
lungs and hipbones heaving
in this sweet, perfect, imperfect synchrony
and to see him, the physicality of my deliverance,
a lightly scented shadow on his couch, how he inspires me
as mountains and rainfall fail miserably to inspire me.
always i have known what i would do to such a
man as this, and that is to
pin him to the cushions, between both of my knees, as a scientist
would a particular specimen of butterfly-
then make a deep investigation into the inside of his mouth
and underneath the edges of his jawline.
had i the briefest precedent of his
undying and disastrously pleasant servility
i'd have kissed him the first time he spoke to me.
had i known how beautiful he was to become
while i watched him sinking to his knees before me,
i'd have found him ages ago and claimed his willing entirety
like a title,
would have worn him as i wear the whispered epithet of queen.
that he would be so gentle with me
and i would extend no such courtesy.
i will outline the shape of his body into the storming sky
and drown violently in him forever.
cover him bit by bit in small bites
and fingertip tracings.
i ask only that he frame me
in a decidedly inimitable way
as any artist does his masterpiece.
an artist with his mouth and hands,
stringing kisses over my neck like pearls on silver chains,
instilling intricacies of hypnosis into the center of my being,
this is why i will never believe him when he says he can't paint sober.
he paints arches into my spine.
he paints a soft tempo into my chest.
he paints all the stars upon my body with his laughter, lips, and warm breath.
and i could walk forever in this perfect artist's gallery.
