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I am not interested in fleeting moments of your flesh meeting mine.  

 

What ignites your desire smolders within me:  

Your desire to spiral me into your atmosphere. 

Your desire to belong next to me.

Your desire to blueprint an us. 

Your desire to quote me from cover to cover and remain captivated by no ending.  

 

For me to not know absolute extent of your intention works.  But know, I go for the jugular.

Depth.

 

Depth retains integrity of a truth spoken unto myself; my desire to discern all of you.   

To viscerally unwound your cloaked emotions.

To lock pick your silent logic.  

To devour your untold story with my heart.  

To bind your vulnerability to unspoken trust. 

To murmur my promise to be there for you.

 

Sex is fun.  It’s flirty.  It’s fleeting.  

 

First encounters can last a weekend or less than one sip. 

Interludes like these never intrigue me. 

For me, knowing another’s capacity for tension, before unwrapping,

is to be savored like eloquent chocolate filling one’s mouth making impossible next word.  

 

My no makes my yes delicious.

 

Depth is in my promise to exchange what I think for how I feel:  

I want to feel lost in a sea of stars looking for guidance when your eyes seize mine.  

I want to know how indescribable feels when intoxicated by your inhalation.  

I want to feel impression of your reflection when it wrinkles mine mid-pond.

I want intangible discernment to confuse me when your whisper caresses my drowsy shoulder. 

 

And, I want you to feel I am in this mingle of us with all of me.  

 

I won’t be blind to difficult conversation.  

I will see such as opportunity to explore how my sublime imperfections complement yours.  

From there, we co-create that meeting place of where we are because we respect who we are in relationship with one another.  

 

You are not my better half, nor I yours.  

We entwine our wholeness fashioning an emotional bond not known individually.  

Our glue pays tribute to what existed prior to an us.  

 

Personal life passions add fullness.  

 

We sit comfortable in one another’s presence as our outside lives spill across dining table

staining laid cloth as thoroughly as a vintage red stains unadulterated silk.  

 

These uniquely personal experiences receive rich reception in our hearts. 

Our desires and fears; visions of paradise and hell, have notice. 

All are held secret in that subliminal space that binds lover to lover. 

 

We do this for no other reason than to finely attune clarity to pay homage to our capacity to fully engage in knowing love does not flee.  

 

We acknowledge love sometimes settles like silt or lodges like a gritty irritant.  

 

Love is not a heady elixir.  

Love is not etched in stone.  

Love is not carved in tree bark. 

Love is not to be trifled with. 

 

Love requires tenacity to keep sacred that space where kept promises live,

because our love was seeded before love bound us.

 

My love for you exists in knowing what it must feel like to be in the presence of God.