They will say
that my sheets are in need of
laundry.
They see stains that will glow
in purple light,
the DNA of a long torso
divided into sections
forming individual boxes
of sinew,
of muscle.
Moving.
My small hands
feeling
the dampness
at the curve of a massive back.
Moving.
Always moving, touching, adrift.
A patch of fine hair trailing.
Much like
a cobweb of truths and lies,
expectation calling
a rhythm bubbling
like water
over heated.
The pink of perfection,
flesh protrudes
with a road map of veins
to a helmet meant for friction--
my purple light
in the night does not have to glow.
At that moment I know where it is.
A blood filled thing
with a slit meant for sliding
drops of salt and sugar and cream and sunlight,
a promise
before the rain
that my hips rose up to meet.
My ass
round and firm
in your strong grasp.
Push, pull, thrust.
And, you rained in me as
I quivered on the inside,
shook like a mountain
with an unstable foundation
--earth shifting beneath us.
Winter turning into Spring.
A bud hard and pulsating
exploded into a flower.
We experienced a life span
of after shocks
in a matter of minutes.
Pause.
Time, stand still.
You cannot capture a moving thing
whirling.
Your love whirled with mine
like our legs intertwined.
There is an overflow.
Afterwards,
my cheek rested against your chest.
Your arms surrounded me
as I listened to you breathe.
A rising and a falling.
Sleep is a well earned thing.
I am leaking
a combined sweetness
that can be smelt in the air.
They see stains on a reputation
of thread count
hidden by a comforter.
I see a one body
that is two
and
the sweet messy love
of a night
completely
lived.