So mastered.... —W. B. Yeats
Tonight, you cling to my nakedness
with the perfect gratitude of a nearly
drowned man. And I think:
I am the shore he has washed up on.
And I ask: Who is really the one saved?
So much doesn't matter.
There are no questions about where
you have been or where we will go.
There is only now.
There is only your cheek pressed
against the inside of my thigh,
the feeling of your skin becoming my
skin, the sound of you drawing me in
as you inhale that sweet, spicy heat of me
that rises up from a dark,
warm place you want to return to.
And there are these hands.
Hands that you have given a purpose.
Hands that have read the electric petition
of your body and understood. And read on.
These are the hands that will not lie to you.
These are the hands that you will return to.
