As women our love voice is supposed to be one of longing and lack. Traditionally, men are the ones who are the love poets who write from a place of drowning in the inducements of pleasure and love. Now, I drown.
I awoke composing this for you.
I was mistaken about you.
You are not a gentle teddy bear with arms wide open to swoop me away into a fabled conclusion.
You are an aggressive octopus feverishly feeling my aqua geographies teaching me to begin and to think.
You do not offer safety, security, pretty.
You offer the beauty of stars you can only spy while lying in the gutter.
You don’t know me.
You don’t own me.
Instinct not knowledge draws you nigh and presses your scent to me.
Openness not ownership serenades and seduces me.
I burn with a reviving ecstasy that makes phoenixes weep.
Inflamed, I blow sizzle and sparks.
Our love life project bedazzles.
You are brilliant.
You are desire with a capital T.