Between Syllables

I imagine your words undressing me
slowly.

Not with haste-
with intention.
Each line loosening something:
a breath, a guard, a careful distance
I didn’t know I was still holding.

They slide over skin
like a mouth that knows how to wait,
how to linger where sensitivity blooms-
along the spine of a sentence,
at the soft seam
between thought and want.

Your metaphors press closer now,
warm, deliberate,
until my body begins to answer
before I decide to let it.
A quiet ache gathers.
A knowing.

Somewhere between syllables
I feel exposed-
not stripped,
but chosen.
Seen in the low light
where desire sharpens
and restraint thins to a thread.

Your language doesn’t take me apart.
It makes me yield.
Invites my skin to lean forward,
my pulse to speak first,
my breath to forget its manners.

By the time meaning arrives,
I am already open- 
holding your words against me
like heat I don’t want to escape,
only sink into,
slowly,
again.

Reviews

[Kenneth The Poet]

Wonderful work. Like I said, your work is passionate, flirtatious and just flat out excellent.

[Randall]

Sarah, what I said about not needing sleep. Forget it, I need to sleep, I have some dreaming to do.
Randall...

[Curly Grace]

Sweet dreams, Randall

[Randall]

They'll be sweet, alright. Believe me, they'll be sweet.