My Lord,
I know you in language,
not
by your fingertips,
or your tongue,
or your eyes,
or your voice,
or heavy petting,
or lip smacking.
I do not know the scent of your release,
or the heaviness of your desire,
or the longing in your sighs,
or the length of your reach.
I do not know your grip,
your push,
your gasp for a breath,
your touch,
your taste,
your hunger.
My Lord,
I know you in vocabulary,
in depiction.
I know you in daydream
where
I have felt your limit,
where I have forfeited myself
in the aroma
of your pleasure,
where I have met you at the top
of the mountain,
the highest peak,
where we have gasped for air
together,
fingers entwined,
legs braided,
excreting deliquescent
adoration.
My Lord,
I speak in daydream,
lost in lust language
where I know you.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 