Moments like this
The moment of this longing is like the afternoon that burned, with an aroma of invisible apple logs; or perhaps like the reminiscence of a poem I must have felt like cuddling with, instead of writing it.
My skin glows, in the blaze of an intimate sunset of words tasting of cinnamon and saffron-coloured - I vaguely ask myself why, before spreading a lake of honey and tenuous pepper, or simply, of molten languor, at the feet of a mountain of yearnings far too ineffable to climb.
As if it were the hand of another poet, I let my hand glide this whole lust, full of the cadence of unrhymed spices, along a strophe as sinuous as a thirst for something ready and hot, bubbling in a bowl offered at the doorstep of an arrival, after a long detour.
But my hand stops – and so does that of the other poet – by the first spoonful of nightfall; and it is then that the lips soak up this sampling, welcoming the pinch of salt.
I swallow a whispered echo, and the remnants trickle, slowly, in a sigh; from between the eyelids and the breasts, I wipe the last of drops that this longing left there.
Then I fall asleep, naked; still curled by the poem that dawn may, possibly, rekindle.
And I dream of wanting more.
-- © 2008 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®