Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

His Whisper


He came to me in whispered form. His mouth agape, a causeway to kindled flame.

I inhaled the scent of ecstasy, dribbling my nimble fingers across his limbs. His archway open, I laid asunder the blanket of my warmth and gratitude, feeling more flesh than reality explained.

Nothing was unopened. Yet everything was never closed. So that in rising to the occasion, I met not myself represented, but the truth that always lingered.

Here, I was a quaking shadow; my resistance to the knowing spelled out in a book beyond reason; the words, neither given nor spoken, floating as distant gems burst into sparkling awareness.

I could capture adoration, as I captured his grin; his eyes set upon me like the sunlight against the sunken eyes of the cave dweller; starlit lashes caressing the tears washed through from the edges of his catered thoughts.

I am here, I sang; the dove I was, still gathering her feathers as one collects the ivory waves of the bride. How I ran, my own feet unable to stand beneath my travels, lifted above the gallows into the light of the morrow.

He came. He came. He came. His discernment long forgotten; his hands the striking marks of mastery. My name chiseled upon his lips. The syllables of someone I was not, counted, renamed, and sent to the twilight of nowhere. A someone, a something… distinguishable.

Clay in his palms, I molded. Collapsed upon his fingers, leaping through the lines of time. I panged with immeasurable pleasure. Each of what I was, paused and soaked in the rapture of days.

Eruption entered from somewhere deep. My plentiful appetite without cease, without seizing. Nothing stopped the agony of his love. Nothing.

And like the river beating down the sands of shore, I crumbled in the eternity of pounding, the nibbles of his grace decorating my dreams.

I walked. I swam. I flew. I dipped. I entered and reentered into the stream of violet-magenta fantasy. His chest the bureau in which I slid my tickled-love.

How I needed him. How I pleaded sin. Long past maiden and well in between the place of groom and cherished lamb. My bed was his. My cause forged in union. And everywhere I looked, I glanced his face.

His image broadly stroked across the lenses of my discovery. To devour was not enough, nor to wrap my seeded arms about him and sprout up within and through his every movement.

Even the spell of another could not cast upon my sight the want of closure. All of I was he. And all of he my waking ghost.

How he slumbered near, and how I surrendered; trading my limbs for the chance of touch, cascading my shame for all, if only he would dare to enter. My chamber ready. My burden thick. My treasure painted golden with every breath I’d given.

And here I waited, helpless and wished upon, unbroken in my ebbing desire to rise and descend upon his nested grave. To dig upon the earth he moved and lather my face in the cool dampness of his bounty. To cast out my entire being where he was hidden; if only to find he knew me still. To witness his swallowing. To take in again and again his beating declaration of lover found. To bask as cherished promise in the burning fountain of his endless whisper.

painting broken peace

2 thoughts on “His Whisper

  1. Incredible


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