someone who feels the curves of my soul
who understands the clay from which it came
who sees it glazed, raw, wet, cold,
dry, in the nude, smooth, refined,
fresh from the kiln,
someone who looks at my heart as a sculpture,
who sees that desire can exist
in shades aside from red.
to be held and to hold,
under the covers,
safe from the cold,
someone who loves me bare beneath my clothes,
who in darkness at last lets me be;
someone between the sheets,
into whose crannies I can exhale my fears.
to be pink,
to express uncorrupted;
the second split between here and gone again
just one single person
who can inspire just one single moment,
lips against my lips in the City of Jasmine,
like a wall
leaping up to meet a wrecking ball,
to give way and to take,
someone to make me shake
someone to help me burn and melt and fold,
for sparks to feel and fly,
for me to be steel,
for me to end oxidized.
to be held against a wall,
for Damascus to fall,
for cardinal moments beyond my words,
but within my lexicon.
lips and eyes and sighs and soul
to accept matter for matter,
whatever state it’s in.
not to feel like a sin.