It's a dance.
A beautiful, erotic dance.
There is an energetic but rhythmic, lead, be led, pulsation to this dance.
They say some words, you find a question.
They respond to the question.
You hone in on where the response comes from.
It's a dance towards infinity.
You don't know how long it will last.
i'm dancing six pages with two/not one at the moment.
It may culminate with the orgasmic explosion of Freedom,
or it may end with the lazy relaxed waltz of 'how ordinary'
Who knows?, Who cares? Who is there to know or to care ?
The dance isn't a dance between two people,
it's a dance of togetherness between a 'no I' and an I standing on a ledge.
The intertwining of 'what is' with a story of hope and despair,
makes for intimacy hypersensitivly (i love making new words) delicate.
The little death that is orgasm happens many times on each page, but,
"is this it?", "is it?", "no it can't be, it's too soon", "there hasn't been enough foreplay yet."
Each time the faintest spasm of recognition that promises absolute bliss, each time,
Thoughts come thundering in. "You don't want that !" "This isn't right !" "you'll go to hell !"
Thoughts that carry a wet blanket, a full bucket of water to douse a tiny spark.
Each time that happens, the dance moves into a new question,
gleaned from the unseen body language of the I about to jump.
Again and again to the quickening beat of the music, or is it my heart ?
"When will it end?" you ask, "for I can take no more"
It won't i tell the I, this is just the beginning,
So you might as well jump !
Have you ever seen an I splattered on the sidewalk ?
It's a beautiful, horrible wonder-full sight.
Well, not a sight, just seeing.
