Connect

Long, very.
The day, the night, it matters not.
I wait, and the wait is long, very.
Prelude to a bounce, says my self,
just being busy, while you're not, says my ego.
All I really look for is to rest
safe, steady, right in the eye of the storm.
And from there to spread my arms out
and touch, and understand through touching,
the whirling winds that are shaking,
once again,
the foundations and walls and roofs and windows of my puny shelter.
As doomed to failure as it may be,
I find impossible to resist the urge.
Reach out: connect.

The Place outside of Time

Engulfed in sweet molasses,
dried by kisses, confused by caresses;
alert, silent vigil on a restless night,
failing to realise
that a morning would not come.
Held tenderly in the gloom,
cracking lips
scouring chlorine from her skin;
trembling fingers gently probing
the surprises of her curves.

In darkness I got in,
by darkness I walked out
from the Place outside of Time.

Deep at the blackest end
of the longest night
flashes her lingering scent,
flickers an impression
of the arches of her lips,
glow the pulsing beats
of the moist shrine
surrounded by her hips.