almost hurts, my love, the agile and yet unhurried,
precise arch of the sketch beyond the fingers
through which you enter me and I you, more than
in a manifest contour of advent and return.
you go, elongate, and I come. abridged, I densify
the pliable descent, already a dome of dew and bud,
your hands steering my hips, your art drawing me
closer to the design of the wait, erect, tumid.
almost hurts, my love, the arch of transcending
the brink of you expanding and me following, more
and more pulp, more and more juice. all but a still life
in these intense colours – you ascend, ablaze, I
descend, aflame. and the arch, perfect, is the
scream – almost pain, my love – falling, at last, on
the apogee of the altar, the tree. on the sketch,
fulfilled, from which the mouths harvest, in small,
ripened sips, the architecture of the wait – almost
pain, my love – that buds again.

© 2006 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®

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 A link to my most recent short story: http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewshortstory.asp?AuthorID=14937&id=23825