My heart is palpitating.
Though my hands are still, my being is trembling.
I am waiting --
for ground to split beneath my feet, for black to rise up from the ground and
swallow me, the ominous black that will never hurt me.
He is tall and so large, he fills the void of sky, devourer of sun and stratus.
He calls me my name and though his face is carved and harsh, his eyes are stars,
the words carried to my ears are a whisper.
I know at once that this man loves me.
I know at once that I am his.
But there are six pomegranate seeds glimmering, only for me.
I have watched them, seeds dancing the deep bled translucence on white nights
by strained moonshine.
It is in the dark that I most miss him.
His black is the shroud I draw over me.
His kiss, my little death. (The zephyr of his sigh would be my quickening.)
All fear him, all pronounce his name with awe, with quaking,
but he is tender, only for me.
This is why I love him.
When I lay myself in fields of gold beneath azure blue and bright, I splay myself
out for him, anxious for his shadow over mine.
I know wherever he is, he is watching.
I know every part of him as intimately as he knows every part of me.
His gaze is a secret tendril arched into the yearning crevice
in the valley of my thighs, I birth an emptiness that calls. (It makes me ache
betimes for a harmony I cannot yet remember.)
My arms reach out to embrace a form as elusive as nothingness.
I open, stricken, and clasp air to my breast.
One day I will love him in his entirety.
One day there will come the intertwining.
Till then I must bide my time,
weave flowers in my hair and perfume lips and feet so the musk of my want
finds its way down and hastens him.
And tread, and tread light,
all ready, aquiver, for him.