autotelic, autistic, assonance-hole©.

Eloquent Patrician

Relentless you, tugging insistently upon my mind. I wake with the memory of your taste, all salty sweet, upon my lips and seek it once more…. but it is gone. I woke from a dream in which it was not, and sighed for need of waking. I lay in bed a time, eyes closed and reaching after glib Morpheus who, disinterested and aloof, slipped quietly over the horizon. Then, restlessly, replayed the look of you, all flushed and smiling with those eyes, sparking like cobalt fire; I have not nearly enough of you, for all the imprint glows; a delightful brand of being that sinks slowly inward, rippling outward like a pebble into ocean cast, the soft call still echoes, “Finally… oh finally.”

The narrator, more scribe than speaker in any moment, amygdala, crafts curls and cursives to hold you gently, as I whirl like a satellite finding orbit; steady, slow recognition and then, only sweet semi-stationary movement; beautifully bound; the delightful pull of you, proximitious rather than penetrating makes me pine. I am restlessly supine, feeling the sluggish, slow pulse of initiation, a passing through of boundaries and befores.

Memories flit and form obligingly; you, settling back and opening like a lotus; you, smiling as if surprised; you, mantled over the little table as if protectively; you, looking deeply and then, away, as if overcome. So many more moments, etched indelibly, notations upon the page of my mind. The notes of such memories, thronging close and resonating, making music of my thoughts, a gift of flowers plucked from your being, given with a smile and making of my melody a duet. This is the very sense of it, the same lofty beauty; the arias and crescendos of those angelic voices made accessible and oh so very real.

It takes my breath and I give it willingly, gasp softly as I wonder, as I feel the power of possibility pour from you. Aquarian angel, bearer of liquid life, oh deliver unto me. I am parched, but prepared for receiving; my humble, wooden cup, out held in trembling hands. Like the very ground, I await the rain; my hopeful, upturned face, seeking precipitation; no droplet, no, not one, shall find other than happy home in me. Pour yourself, remake the ancient myths with me, bring sustenance and Spring and I, the restless, slumbering earth, so sweetly shall give forth to receive you. I never knew the savor of sleeping ground until now. I never held the sense of it. It always seemed somehow cruel; cold and quiet earth, shifting and lifting and cracking itself open in search of any stream, any sweet sliver of nourishment.

I know it now; I am replete with it; smiling for shivers and laughing for the languishing emptiness that seeks fullness. Poignant paradox of patience and persistent hunger, I am dizzy for desire of you.