"do all lovers feel like they're inventing something?,"
a portrait of a lady on fire
a sudden surge of energy, a change in atmosphere altogether
creation itself, and creation alone
i have always assumed that to love must be
to light ablaze, to solitarily sculpt
What Was into What Is and What Will Continue To Be,
which is only somewhat true
-
because i find: to love and be loved by you
is to sculpt and be sculpted in the very same moment
we might as well be made of clay, a wordless understanding
to touch and cleave to gentle touch, to hold the nape of a neck and lean into soft hands
to stretch out fingers and wrap them around your own, to kiss and respond in turn
-
one minute, seeking: walking the sun lit corridors of the museum,
slowly shifting your curious gaze and glancing around.
(isn't that creation? everything ceasing to exist until you lock eyes with-)
the next, sought: ceramic skin basking in the light,
standing still as a statue, subtle smile aimed at suitor
in full view, vulnerability chosen without a sound
-
there is a balance to it all, a back and forth
a steady breath exhaled, a switch (silent as anything) between seeing and choosing to be seen
between lighting ablaze and finding yourself enveloped in the sudden warmth,
stoking with tenderness and tending to this something, unexplainable
unable to be described
-
a kiln of our own
there is no place but this, no arms but yours
