Is he this?
He is... isn't he?
He is nourishment and every meal:.for breakfast..lunch..and dinner..dessert and snacks in between
HE is spicy and sweet/Domestic and Exotic/Dark and Tall/Moody and Earthy/Amazing and Overwhelming/Magical Realism and Naturalism
He is what has consumed...what rages in me a want for him like an all consuming fire.
HE is the arms in which I lay....where my head perfectly fits.
He has the lips that quench my thirst...
He is the tongue that bathes my tortured skin.
He is the thickness that engulfs me.
He is....isn't he?
He is tonic and elixir...
He is what swells inside my womanhood, filling me fully, completely
He is the smell of Christmas morning, Sunday dinners and Valentine's Day candy..
He is the balm for my heart...Neosporin for my old wounds and battle scars
He is the pornographic and erotic, a sensual terrorist staking his claim
He is the possessor of the tool of love that touches my spine, like the life force of human kind depends on it.
Is he this?
Isn't he? He is..
He is the vodun, the Santeria, candomble..obeah.pulsating, transcendent beat. You are an Orisha sent to baptize me. Work your hoodoo on me, conjure love in my soul
He is the smell that lives on me...in my hair..on my skin.. dancing on my tongue....in the folds of my vagina..through my sweat...he lives.
HE is sex and laughter. Pain and pleasure. Art imitating life imitating art again.
He is Warhol painting and Basquiat, Pollack abstractness and womanly O'keefe wombs...
He is dance and movement, Mitchell, Ailey and Dunham, Geoffrey Holder dancing in bare feet, tango and Abekor, waltz and merengue..salsa and slow grinding.
He is jazz and reggae beat, blues and gospel, sanctified and Secular, devils music in angelic embodiment.
He is meaning and syntax, prose and poem, complicated trajectory of thoughts and mathematics, logic and reason, soliloquy and dialogue...
He is like heroin in my veins, addicted to nothing more than the sound of his voice.
He is this.
Him.....what love feels like