Art of love, war and dreams.

and yet there he is
his fingers
reading my skin like braille
feeling out my land marks
like a living map that charts
and plots
the various boarders between
heart, mind, soul,
Oh God, his fingers....
his fingers that pry surreptitiously
into the most secret spaces
I contain.

this is not reality

and yet his breath
is warm against my cheek
as he whispers to me-
in the sunlight that
falls in waves of peach-
a declaration of
mandates, constructs,
rules of engagement,
a secret language of
impassioned lovers
in velvet whispers
counter playing the counter play
with words
only he and I understand.

this is not reality

and yet his lips
like heat seeking missiles
land perfectly
in every crease
every fold
every millimetre
of my terrain
he bombs my cities
with an ardent precision
with kisses that
pull me under
in a full bodied assualt
that breaks me wide open
leaving me
ripe for the taking
making me cry out

occupy me if you dare!!

this is not reality

and yet there he is
wearing nothing more
than that smile
that brings me to my knees
he takes me, takes me, takes me
ruthlessly, obsessively,
wantingly, wickedly
his battle cry sings out
as I tremble beneath him
collapsing,
destabilised beneath the weight
of his ardour and mine
I fall,
he topples
and together we expire
le petite morte

and if this were real

we'd lay scattered,
limbs entwined
on a battle field
of twisted linen
purveying all that we lost
and all that we gained
as we steadied ourselves
and prepared
eyes locked
mouths upturned in a
come get me grin
for the battle to begin again

Occupy me if you dare

but this is not reality

2009-12-04 8:52 a.m.