A Knife

Erotic Poetry

Last night, before my head rested. 
My thoughts of you circulated like smoke in the bedroom light,

thoughts that levelled up my arousal like a ball thrown into the water, bobbing back up to the surface,

floating till claimed. And I floated the whole damn night, the same, adrift 
on the still waters of your words. 

Now, it’s Morning - every ‘I, we, maybe’ is cutting that smoky air like a blade under a tap,

it deflects and disperses water until it touches every surface, tiny drops scatter, making everything glisten wet and refreshed, 

the knife making way for itself to stay, 

even if a little messy, carving its place in the nature of things, affirming its presence not a weapon, though it could be,

your words are a wielded tool 
they can create wild waves and also a delicate dance of living and feeling,

your sensitivity (I see how it scares you)
speaks to my heart from yours,

your courage (I see how it dares you)
to step forth and further yourself, your life and lust for living 

and amidst it all I see the ‘you’
with the depth of the ocean and the needs of it too, and I long for the world to meet you as I do 

with open arms and open legs 
still in the bed of my wanting 
still in the worth of my longing, 

to feel you drive into me physically, 
sexually, spiritually 
with touch so tender it lightens the darkest long night, a contradiction of your tough persona 

of any resilient defence, a brittle protection that is hell-bent on not letting this life break you, us, we - I see through to thee, I know you, 

then together in union, we are at our most human, fucking and loving 

in the alchemy of what’s under our words and between them,

the very things we know but can’t yet say because they render us speechless, YES even us - the writers of this scene,

between the words and the resonance outside them is a cutting truth, 

that everyday and every night we do our very best to live both the complex and simple acts of love and sex. 

We bathe in all of it, 
because the ocean of feeling held, is home. 

Copyright @viannearmour