It’s
your nectar, love, holding me close. It’s a feeling, love,
driving
a soul. How does it feel, love: an unborn color,
both
yin and yang, even fennel scars? It’s so humid, athirst
for
more, falling into orgasms. We’re nearly foolish, and
sorely
vexed, dying to get closer. My irk and smile, a
tornado
within, to intuit my hurt. I run to karma, to jaunt a
passion,
melting morning dew. I’m weak, my love, everso
strong,
and panting softly. You discovered me, drenched
in
actions, to ignite a comet. Such an appetite, nibbling at
a
soul-print, a young symphony. I feel you here, typing
gently,
constructing sentences. You write through me, a
poetic
temblor, to polish forevermore; indeed, every word,
a
keystone, lunging into a future. I’m gravid, love, with a
want
to give, carving a porcelain vase. It was ever your
name,
speckled in spotlights, serenading souls. I called
you,
where others failed, ever to ensoul love; and you
answered,
crying my heart, while singing apparitions.
