There are things I want to write about that don’t have words…
so I write about tomatoes and the flowers.
I rest my arm across him, finding the line of his rib cage to support the weight of my own bones. His structure becomes mine
and I dream of our oversoul. The one who must house us both. I thank him on every level of his being, if men are kings then he is a God,
he touches me with wisdom held in deep secrets.
deep troughs of running water,
life giving river.
he has brought life to me in plenty.
Abundance in my man.
I feel him tremble beneath my touch like it was born there. One inch below his skin, two, three, four, until it reaches right through him and becomes the space that keeps him solid.
This man is whole.
I write of things that have no words and fumble to find slots to fit them in. Imaginary lines. I slip often…
I keep trying.
I speak to him and say things that come out turned around – sideways – upside down – over and turned over and thought through – my heart says some things only movement.
only in wet pulsating light.
only in fondness and softness and water.
He runs through walls with me, we’ve been together many moons, many lives,
across many seas, many husbands, many wives, rights wrongs, fights songs, lips tongues, kisses hugs and touches between thighs,
lovers between eyes,
warriors, with one mission in mind.
partners in crime.
masters of time