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Something about the way
he loves me
does that all the time
makes me feel like romance
can penetrate
the skin, that it’s more
than just a state of mind
and making love is
transcendental
enough to move the ground
under our feet
break down the four walls
of the bedroom, more
than bodily pleasure
more than a climb
to the peak,
some peak, more
like a deep conversation
while walking in the park
when you know that
between your smiles,
ingrained in each word,
each footfall,
is a passion and a hunger
and an ache enough
to light up two lives
that used to think
they had all it took
to walk blind and survive

more than the protrusion
of his throbbing flesh
occupying me where
I am hollow and in need,
more natural and intuitive
as when two pieces of
a puzzle fit together
in more than one way, more
than the stimulation of
nerve endings
more than friction
because we don’t settle for
being spent in exchange
for being sated
we’re way more infinite

he embraces me
just to be close to me, and
even with clothes on
his soul reaches for mine
and finds it every time,
holding it as if he didn’t
just chance upon it
for an illusory moment
but claims it
like a real man
claims his woman,
claims her from the world
that is crowded and busy
and labyrinthine in its
pursuit of carnal highs,
the same world that
falls silent
within that one embrace

it’s almost too erotic
the way he takes my hand
in his, and that alone
takes me home

and he doesn’t even try.
He just loves me like that.
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Image by photographer Joshua Dwain

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