Each thought of you is of you undressing. Never quite naked, never fully clothed. Just the feeling of clothes peeling, my hands burrowing beneath cotton and silk to find warm skin. The feeling of fingering your flesh like a bow drawn across cello strings, the magic of the music of our touch. My breath in your hair, the condensation of souls caught in their sheer creation. Always slipping something off, always easing into a grand reveal. These moments that make us real, resonating outside of time.
Your genius is your presence in places you have never been, your wonder is how you endure in tensions you will never again impress. My genius was in your ignition, in the way I could whisper all reason away from your hesitance, the way I could always find your plaintive yes. The raising of a skirt, the insistent kissing of carnal truth. My hands only ever at home riding your endless tides. I close my eyes to see your flawless gaze. I open them, seeing stars.
How the seasons pile between us. How the moon never touches the sea. I am an old man already in these middling years, more beaten, more dimmed, much stronger than these books and sums. I am a life time away from that gaudy child, depths and shadows darker than all those break bone tarantellas, rotten and glowing and carved from curses and apocryphal prayers. I am further and further from the known shores, the ideals and oaths that I used to measure in blood and fire. Still I summon you, unwrapped and enraptured, eyes as bright as burning time, smile as sharp as some sliver of the moon. Still it is you I would enfold in my arms, as proof against all darkness. My profane incandescence infused within your nearing skin. Every goodness warm and calm beneath these worn and empty hands.
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