hold on tight to the eros steam that rises from your shoulders, forearms, and thighs as you sit with me on the log on Kits beach at 3:22am on this eternal hot August night of corporeal reveries, emotional missives in the form ofeyebeams and moments of lips drying out from the oddly warm breeze that sometimes glides upthe sand from off the pre-dawn ocean.
I want to hold on tight to that steam to keep it close to us because [I guess] I fear itís not eternal, though thereís no reason to believeit canít be, and shouldnít the goal be to makesure it is, back and forth between us, engrossing us?
and what of mineÖ what do you see of the eros mist emerging from my pores? I canít see it [I never can] but can you? if my will were involved it would be orbiting the both ofus elliptically coyly never coming closer than necessaryto our skin but just close enough to ever re-draw goose bumps when they wane from lack of studied attention from gliding the backs ofour hands over each otherís limbs.
because if you ask me to go Iíll go down to the water edge to dip my fingers in the salty murk, then return to you to slide my fingertips along your forehead down your cheeks around the underside of yourchin and down your neck to yourcollar bones so the steam and sea provide an evaporating mask of delight grounded in the weight of the ocean and eros intertwined in proportional balance that rhymes with the balance we keep seeking to maintain by inhaling each otherísbreath and soul.
and oh, will the dawn nod and smirk at our adrenaline-rich undroopy eyes. nod indeed.
Copyright 2002, Stephen Buckley 09.07.02, 900-930pm
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