Love Note

She wrote me
a love note,
how she wanted
to reveal herself.

In this note
she told me
how she wanted
to undress herself
before me,
adore me, allow me
to know her
in her infinite array.

She asked
in such a delicate
and inviting way
that I leaned
into her fragrance
and allowed her tongue
to reach
into my chasmed
disorientation,
my emotional
insecurities,
and allowed her
to know me
in the softness
of my melancholy.

She wished
to wander
into my pain
and touch
and tug at me,
unfold me,
and lick
and whisper
into my truest-self
the nature
of all wisdom,
the heart
knowing no boundaries
in its capacity
for a compassion
built of loving
and uncondemning insights.

Her lips were gentle,
she said,
and wished to kiss me,
through my defenses,
nape and naked moaning,
to hold and shuffle
the unevenness
of my sadnesses,
and to reveal her inner-self,
a gaping moistness,
to both mother and love,
and find her satisfaction in,
with me,
in our arms,
in her evening.

I lifted up
her letter
and held it
to my face
and never knew
a moment,
before or since,
except to be
within the honey
of her flower;
the opacity
of transformation
has become
a blindness
to my burdens,
and she
the answers
of my dreams.

runningturtle87