Lost for Words




We only have words between us,

no sighs or hesitant caress to blur

the plain typeface–no forward swirly copperplate,

just guarded vowels and dry consonants,

crumbled like seasoning,

or tapped to and fro in a desultory

game of ping-pong diplomacy,

originality wrung out,

passion bored to tears.

I want to replace those words

with fluid actions beyond mere descriptors,

choreograph a path of unbridled intimacy,

tracing the shape of desire along indent and contour,

angles complementary–one thing following on another,

(because it takes two to tango)

fingers digging for the amour in armoured skin,

our mouths colliding,

tongues exploring without thought

of correct grammar or consequences,

the demon melee of sensuality

pushing everything away in one sweep,

before we reach our crisis.

And afterwards, as you hold me close,

like a plucked flower,

all metaphors spent,

the beat of my blood answering yours,

letting the last of the precious clichés spill out

and populate the world–

I am finally lost for words.



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