Sex is too intrusive. It shatters; it breaks; it consumes. Lovers push in to "feel" connected, to "feel" like their bodies merge into one being, so desperate for intimacy that they settle for consumption, as if consumption equals intimacy.
Physical intimacy includes more than penetration. The body is constructed of nerves, muscles, and skin. Twirling thumbs, when one is not yours, can sharpen the mind's focus so well that everything else vanishes. Is there anything more intimate than a finger tracing the folds of your skin, discovering its imperfections, trading in its warmth, creating a maze of intimacy out of touch? Is there anything as satisfying as losing ourselves in a labyrinth of sensation?
Intimacy is more thanphysical. Like the body, the mind is a construction. It, however, is a mansion.Infinite hallways filled with doors. Rooms within rooms. Push on one door andyou'll find my joy. Pull on another and you'll find pain. In this room, I keepmy secrets, the one's I lock away until someone has the password, the key, the fingerprintidentification, a retinal scan, and has passed the intense psychologicalscreening. In that room, are my demons; that door is like a scab I can't stoppicking. Open at your own risk.
YOU ARE READING
Before; After
PoetryI'm posting this looking for some feedback. Any constructive criticism will be greatly appreciated. Writing has always provided me with solace, by helping me to sort through and frame my emotional experience. During one of the more difficult times...
