Tuesday, 17 May 2011

Playing


Your back a clean page


Firm beneath my hands.


I spread my fingers


And feel rise and fall of slow breath


In time with mine.


But no, not your heart


To feel it beat you would be a man.


I want you my instrument


Unmoving, with legs bound.


Your back my canvas


Symbols drawn from my fingers.


You see by a feeling


That fades as it cools.


I warm you with wax drops


Red, I peel them away


The first marks.


I trace lines between them


My nails a rehearsal for a blade


Cleaning away all other sensation


But for the salt I brush in


With lemon juice I wash you.


Your arms unbound


Muscles tense to tear cloth.


I bite your shoulder


Earthy spice of sweat


Dries on my tongue.


Your arms I stroke unmarked


Slow to your wrist.


Your hands will touch no part of me


They are just for my eyes


To hold and imagine


How you will play for me


In the final movement.



2011




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