I am sorry.
I brought her into bed with us again, she who worries
too much about her breath and her b.o.
all the wrinkles of offense, she who cringes at the thought,
the very idea that she may be seen,
imperfect as the smoke hiding the fireworks the other day,
left a trail of sooty stink looming,
threatening to mar our view, dim the shiny glee of us.
And now you know.
Though the end is not the all, not the being or culminating cause,
we were groomed to believe so,
such that her presence stays me, stems the flow, ebbing waves,
impenetrable shield, a barrier, firm and illusory, still
and empty as the notion that we need to be THE image
the key to keyhole fit
when with a flick of a switch, lights on to view the truth
veins and skin and twisted mouth
invisibly drawn to be erased in one full sweeping hearty sigh
honestly gut-of-the-mind uttered
by body belief in beauty larger than sight
holier than the mountain
we delve in for deliverance in undeniably desirous delight
release and respite, fulfilling
in its wholeness, this acceptance, this release,
this trust in blind care
for the principle, for the knowledge of us we share
enfolded, in threaded limbs
that nothing but fear she wedges between permeable doors
open-shut as the thought leaping over the falls
cascading down an embracing grip caught in the pupils’ deep
in careful sense, fragile fortitude as the spine of a lover.
photo credit: static.yourtango.com
I am sorry.