—YOU ARE QUITE A STORY

                                      

                                           Entelechy, in Pieces

Entelechy (n):

the realization of potential

1.

It begins in media res.

Lips on a nipple, nudging, tugging, teasing, lacquering each russet loop with spittle, slick as meringue. 

Lips on bone, on neck, collar, and breast plate.  Lips on phalanges.  Lips on a rippled sea of flesh. 

Lips on lips, on lips. 

Slipping with purpose, careful to savor each secretion, to hold it there on the tongue, like an offering to oneself.

We’re here, upon this bed or cloud, blind and furious, the air incensed by the heat our skins throw off, a slow fire inside us building and churning, threatening to burn down whatever enters our path.

…Hours or days later, we’re still not through.  We’re never through

And soOURS HHo I enter you, a slow falling, like snow melting on the ground, soft as an impression in dough, yet you gasp again, as if no one’s ever been exactly there before.

You motion More, hungry as a babe is for the teat. 

Your eyes thrash like water over brook stones. 

You’ve never been more focused or eager, never quite so agitated and ignited.

Every swell takes us with it, makes us dizzy and desperate.  We twist in color, mix elastic.  Odors drip off us like gold gone liquid.

Nothing finishes, nothing ends.  Everything continues pulsing, like a pulse inside a pulse that doesn’t want out.

2.

I will not forget this day, these moments, this you right now, folded into me like a twin skin. 

When the nurses come and call me by a name I do not know, I will still remember this now.

3.

Is there such a thing as a feral kiss?  I think so.  But why not try once more, just to be sure?

4.

Don’t laugh, but when you laugh, it is a form of fellatio for me. 

Hey, I said not to laugh.

Stop laughing. 

Okay, stop chuckling.  Or giggling.  Whatever you want to call it.

Let me start again…

When you laugh, my skin prickles.  I take in stitches of air.  I buck without knowing it.  My toes splinter.

When you laugh, I reach places I’ve never been, and sometimes it’s impossible to come back.

5.

There is a downpour inside you, a searing river, spiced and aromatic. 

Can’t you see how thirsty I am? 

Give me some, please?

Just a sip, or a flood.  Or a beautiful drowning.

6.

Here you come again. 

Dolly wrote that, sang that. 

But she had no idea. 

None.

7.

Your Hair.  Let me travel through it, nose-first, tongue and fingers causing tangles.  I’ll wash them out later, with lather.  I’ll dry it flat or curled, whichever you prefer.  I’ll wear it on my chest, like a string of feather medals I know I don’t deserve.

8.

The moon on your lips is luminous, luscious, delicious. 

When I take it my mouth, we both glow, and hence, the impossible is made possible once again.

9.

Luna can’t see us, but she can hear. 

The shrill cry of uprooted joy, detonated ecstasy.  The sound of a flock of starlings as they swirl like one in the air, only to explode like a burst of black pepper.  

Even now, Luna can hear us, can hear the starling wings beat songs of yearning into her ear.

10.

I write a triptych across your bare back.  With my tongue. 

I curl the capital S’s, swirl a Q, dot all the i’s. 

You say, “That tickles, but don’t stop.”

You say, “You’d better fucking not stop.”

And that is why the story never ends.