White Sunday 172: wet

string again your cithara, the wet frets
making sweet music against my fingers,
proxy for the penetration, glissando.
wrap legs and arms about me, whisper or shout,
draw me in, the sin of skin is in denial:
wasted hours, days, years, when I should have
pressed the suit to stare into your eyes
as I enter you, center us on a communion
of flesh and fluids, the druids of a new religion,
built on sacraments of shared urgency.
a claim of a promised life, built on fire
that rises within you as I lose myself
in your tight, sweet, wet core and release
a sacrifice of of my own flesh, to fill
you to the lips of wordless wonder, thunder
of your lightning. kissing in chaos
where our bodies are merged avatars of love.
I will hear you call my name without shame
as you shudder and surrender the final gates,
waiting no more for a moment that would not come
if you did not need me so much in this moment
that I feel the rhythm of your heart
in every curve and corner, sworn to me,
born to be mine, as I am deep and yours.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.