It's almost been two
years since last I loved a woman. And there has to be some kind of irony divine
that it occurred on Independence Day,
or night to be
specific. There were fireworks despite the fact the two of us had done that
kind of thing for thirteen years together.
If I knew it was the
last time, that this could be the last time, maybe just the last time, I don't
know.
I may have paid
attention, maybe kept a journal, at the least I could have written all those
movements in a poem.
True I do appreciate
detachment from the personal and all its gossiping concern for politics in
every damned relationship between a me and you.
Yet it’s not sex but
touch of flesh on flesh and lips to lips and tongue with tongue and more the
overarching warm embrace of two becoming one,
as if the apex of this
evolutionary realizational intent was being played out in a bed of flowering
delight,
a whirling dervish
mystic union of all this with That, like every ardent color of the spectrum
reuniting with its secret dark and bright.
Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes,
here comes that void of night!
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