Sunday, September 2, 2012

A meditation on a memory

(written sometime in July)

I am awake, but quiet. There is a delicious taste in my mouth. I am imagining it still there and my languid thoughts muscle me down. No swimming today but I kick to a cool side of the bed. Your lascivious breath warms and wets my ear, blows into silk and sunless pathways to the southern tip of me. It circles in my belly, and a little lower too.  I am dreamy (always) but, should you call my name twice, summon me back, (Gwen, Gwendolyn) and press me here once, send me away. Farewell pain. But there is nothing for my silly mind to add to this. Embellishments are not for you; your auburn fur adorns your chest perfectly. I am sleepless, but you are not, and I am grateful. I flutter back to the warm side of the bed where you are prostrate and pinked and just a little bit damp. Can I keep you? I fear not. Sweet -bodied air and a switch-backed road, and you will sustain me for just one day. Then I retreat to the space between my ears, the sunless space between my ears, and think nothing of my aches, but of this early morning when I am awake, and your restful mind may think you are somewhere else, but you are with me.

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