Slow dance

We've been performing the dance for a while now. It has the intensity of the salsa and the slow sexiness of the waltz. It's passionate and cold all at once. Depending on the day and the weather it feels sweaty like humidity and soft like rain. It feels right like love and wrong like love.

The dancers bow in the soft light. To each other and to what might be. The curtains stand witness to this peculiar enactment. The air is loaded with questions, worries and anxieties. But the arms that hold you close feel so right.

There is music playing, too softly. You strain your ears to catch a note and realise what you're doing. It's about the  person you're with. Not the song. Even silence makes for a lovely slow dance.

Your head rests on his shoulders. Your arms go around his waist. You feel his fingers on your back and smile as he takes a deep breath of you.

Should we make a pretence of dancing. We should. We move, slowly. Praying that phones don't ring, we aren't needed, that the world doesn't need us. That nothing should cut into this dance. Legs move, arms too. You bury your face in his neck. He feels warm and his pulse,just a little ragged. Your fingers touch his heart. It's an intimate gesture. And you feel what it does to him. He has no idea what you're thinking feeling living.

You move in closer. He does too. The dance stops. Even as the music plays on.

Forget the questions. Forget the futility of it all. Don't question what it is and isn't. Quell that hungry aching heart that wants and needs. Just. breathe. him. in.

Standing there in that space with him holding you like he's serious, is all you can do right now. And all you've ever wanted to do. 

Just dance.

Stonewall

Arms that only know how to hold (you)

Have to learn to fold

Themselves to the side of my body

Tucked between sheets

And under pillows

Anywhere but around you.

Hands that held palms and fingers 

That soothed an aching head back knee or ankle

With a sure (and vested) touch

Now is held against my face

Is holding a pen

Is frantically cleaning the house

Because it doesn't know what to do when it's not polishing your skin to a warm brown.

Legs that wrapped themselves around one leg or two

around  a waist

Over a shoulder

Against a back

Now stretches as far as it can go

And they go nowhere important.

Yes this body needs to learn to rearrange itself.

These eyes have to find some other place; not your face

The lips need to give up their dependence on lips and fingers and chest and brow

The tongue needs a new language because it speaks only of your gentle touch and awkwardness.

Every part of me feels withdrawn parched and bereft

Of every part of you.

But i need to win this battle

Me not you.

Because otherwise you'll continue to kiss close-mouthed

Turn away from my reaching out hands

Move me away when i get closer

Run. Shrink back. And make a quick escape.

Rejection is hard but rebuilding is more so.

But i am starting with rebuilding.

i am starting with me.

Silver Wedding

Hands make contact with the soft skin on the side of her body.
The surface breaks, cream above, weak below.
Collar bones scaffold the slender neck and bear, like a many shapes and shades necklace, the imprints of thumbs and pointers.
On the generous thighs, one with its unique white birthmark, urgent teeth make their presence felt. The wetness on them is not hers alone.
Eyes that light up with laughter are naked with need for peace and quiet and the blue black on her cheek, like midnight ink, nods in vehement assent.
The golden back has a curve running through it. It seldom sees the light of the day. But heels and toes have made themselves at home in that vast expanse.
Arms clasp each other and fingers join  similar marks, making for a striking assonance.
The lips are bow shaped. The best use of time and energy in that space. No need for colour, they colour themselves in carmine red, nourished from her own body.
The holy space between her legs is a battleground. Why all this if not for that. There are no visible signs. It's not even that special. But if you care to pause, there amidst the almost surprising delicateness, you might spy a grimace or two. An ache or a few.
This is their special brand of love making. It leaves cuts and bruises and aches and pains, and not of the delicious kind. It can occupy serious space on a trophy shelf of broken bones and stripped off, crushed skin. Of breath caught.
This love making is luxurious. It marks her skin with colours you cannot imagine and that carry dreamy calling cards- magenta, vermillion, indigo, purple, black.
You are appalled. They are enthralled. 
You call it physical. They call it poetic.
You say it's wrong. They say only to you.
You say you need help. They say they are.
You say prison. They say bed.
You say separate. They say dead.
You question logic. They counteract with love.
Beating. Love making.
All in a day's work.