Nascent

I memorised the way in which you touched my flesh, tapping away like braille as if you were blind to the way our flesh spoke to one another. Coasting upon the axis of your pole until the pulsations within gripped you - tightly, reflecting the beating of my heart as we clung to one another in the rawness of our own kind of divinity, on the cusp of Winter equinox.  

Arched, and morphing into one another as you drill me hard to drive home your point pertaining to my sense of belonging, when the wondering hands of others upon my flesh invaded your sanity, typified by absence as the essence of Venus brimmed forth.  
 
Epistles scribed on paper, and still I remember the way you wore me, recklessly yet methodically and those whispers escaped my lips as you took me to the edge of blossoming upon the edge of your wilderness until I’m gushing upon your plurality.  
 
Trembling thunderously as we burst forth upon one another, and we were laid bare and lithographed in the depths of a wild flower that flourished for you in a temporal rupture as my heart and soul fluttered in karmic tones, musiquely, swaying upon the fringes of your psyche I peered into your cerulean eyes, and linger in the delectation of your ambient dreams.  
 
An assortment of revered moments, slanting in the fury of our desire and hunger to devour one another – wholly, in the candling of our flesh as we set our souls aflame, saturating one another in the perversions that unfolded in the twilight as you watched the rise and fall of my breath, beneath the weight of you.  
 
I bathe in the ambience of words unspoken, found only in remote orange tinged places and the words were scribbled on a piece of paper; quivering gaping incantations and the equations are found in the mosaic of your memory centre, with legs draped over the broadness of your peripheral vision.  
 
I lay suspended in a hammock with fractured thoughts as I ponder the weight of possibility and probability whilst chiming into his auric field, waiting patiently for the penny to drop whilst ripening on the escarpment of his sage words as Mother Nature chimes in the background.  
 
And decades later, the realisation is that no one has ever syncopated me the way you did, and I can't write the wrong, and wrong the right as I’m lost somewhere  in the enchanting ochres of your sensitive soul, whilst craving the warmth of your breath upon my flesh, and kneeling at the altar of the universe whilst held captive in the mystical waves of all that was, nascent.