Cohesive

*For a woman who does not see that her body is beautiful*

It is raining. Not a hard steady downpour or a romantic pitter-patter.

It is that foggy drizzle that clings to the skin like cobwebs. The sky is dim and murky, like cloudy steel that will fall down to earth one shocking moment.

Stripping out of your damp and sticky clothes, wiping yourself dry with a soft blue towel, the irritation remains.  Dislike settles over you, as your eyes close upon tears.

Unhappy. Unsatisfied, critical. Of your body, the marvelous vehicle that belongs solely to you.

*

He comes in and calls your name, his footsteps a familiar tattoo on the floor.

Hurriedly, you arrange your face and body in welcoming lines. Yet your eyes cannot so easily throw up a mirage.

Kneeling next to you, he asks what us wrong. you don’t talk–the tears pooling off your lashes speak of what you cannot move your lips to say.

He makes the sounds of comfort. But it is his hands that calm you.

**

His hands in your hair. Fingers running across your face, down your neck.

Palms across your shoulders, gripping your anxiety and pulling it out.

His lips following, as his hands curve around to your breasts and trail own you stomach, to your thighs.

His lips now giving way to his tongue, as he massages you calves and feet.

Turning over at his command, your face burning, because he is nibbling behind your knees and moaning softly.

His mouth marching up your thighs to your ass. Where he lingers.

Plays, wallows. A place you loathe is his island paradise.

Sliding up, nestling against the curves of you, his breath skips up your spine, inch by inch.

His face, his lips right next to your ear. Whispering how lovely, how delicious, how beautiful your body is.

How it excites him, terrifies him, pulls his inexplicably towards your bed again and again.

***

Pressing his lips against your closed eyelids, he pushes your thighs apart and runs his fingers across your shaven cleft, your clit awakening and peeping out.

Giving in to the motion of his hands.  The shadows of your form materialize and become solid for you. You have felt separated, disjointed, ungainly.

He always saw you and thought Venus was visiting the earth, looking to grace him with her love.

As his fingers move faster and faster, you gain weight and space in your head. Instead of shadow and dark, you see joy and light.

The body that you were ashamed of becomes your crown. The gift that gives pleasure.

There in your bed, under that dark, heavy soon-to-fall sky, you are collected into one shining gorgeous piece.

Surely

The stars are fading in the sky, when you awaken and reach for me.

As right as rain, I am not there. Was I ever?

You call for me. Not that it is really me you seek.

*

You fooled yourself into thinking I could solve the naked equations, square your bare rule, converge your series.

With the honesty you don’t possess, I will admit that anyone with XX chromosomes could. If she looks right, XXY would suffice or a deliciously deceptive TS, who smells like sugar and feels like silk.

Prowling about your room-shirtless-the thin cotton of your boxers barely containing your pulsing erection. The thin dew of night sweat still covering the fine hairs lining your spine.

Stand still in the quiet morning sun and admit that I/she/me/her/it/they/anyone can fulfill your need.

Whisper it to yourself. Then say it aloud.

Again. Again.

Until it manifests right before you.

Watch your world transform.

*

I never yours to have. I left you with a phantom.

Do you recall running your fingers through her, as I found meaning elsewhere?

For you never wanted me.

You just wanted.

And you hate me for knowing.

Hysterikos

Then:

Not sure what is wrong with me.

The closer I get to you, the more I itch and pant.

It was said that my uterus wanders, is choking me, but I know the truth.

Your neglect is the stricture around my throat.

Hysterical paroxysm brought by doctors and midwives never satisfy the yearning rooted in my brain.

It comes from my mind, no mater where it manifests. My nipples may yawn and grow hungry for your touch. My thighs quiver in anticipation of your caress.  My cunt moistens, my pussy walls clench tightly, wishing you will forcefully batter them down.

I have asked you to be with me. Not to only be fruitful but because I am joined with you. We are yoked, albeit slightly unevenly.

Yet you are away. When you are here, you treat me like glass. Chastely kiss me. Lightly hug me. Bid me a good night and walk from my door. Unfailingly polite, always solicitous.

But distant.  For in truth, I am an accessory.

Only that, after all.

Good

When you call, I do not come. But I will,  eventually.

Like that silky-haired stray that scratched at your door, all through your time at University.

Your hands are seeking my hips but only close around air.

Your teeth are grinding together, wishing my nipples were caught between instead of nothing.

Warmth from my body does not reach you, for when you turn towards me, all you have is a cool pillow, a place where I once was.  A shadow settling in the dark, stirred by your breath.

I am leaving when you arrive. Not staying nearly long enough when I appear.

Running off, not leaving a note. Leaving you to guess.

You talk, I say nothing. I talk, expect no answer in return, for those brief bursts have no need of consent.

When you want my lips, you see my lipstick-stained tissues, tossed to the floor in the bathroom,  floating memories of when you wiped my lips clean with your tongue.

My scent lingers on my robe left hanging on your closet and in my panties tossed carelessly away.

You sigh as your nostrils wonder when they will be greeted by the curling heat of your bath, with me soaking within.

My hair is bound to my head, a tight coil when you want it to be free for your fingers to twist and tangle. Yet other times, I walk around with a tangled nest that you are itching to comb.

Why do you want me?

I do not cook for you, wash your clothes, straighten your untidy dresser drawers. Nor do I chase you with your keys.

Stepping over the mail pooling by your door, I grab the paper from the pile,  on my way to make tea and eat honey by the spoonful. In your clean kitchen that was not cleaned by me.

Not going to have your baby, make a home for you, give any of my life to keep you anchored to this earth one moment more than your fated strand.

What good am I to you?

Is it my arrogant assumption that you will be there, that keeps you…there?

Or is it that when I am there, it is more than any other woman’s here?

Rough, hot, tangy, sweet.

Pounding, sweaty, burning, grinding.

Fulfilling.

The good I am for you-to you…

You know.