by essayan hart
It can’t be this real, this intense. Im afraid that I will stare at you dumbly next time we meet, shellshocked from this language of falling, of flight. You are halfway in each of my thoughts, and under my skin in every movement.
Today my hips are aching from opening, from letting you in. I wanted your fist. Your heart.
I open into freedom, always, but you pull the ropes down from my shelf. In the past, this was a game, for pleasure. Here, beneath you, it is a surrender. I do not let you know, but I am yours for the taking. I submit.
You are afraid of my characteristic wandering. I will not show you where you have me tethered. We reinvent trust. I call to you silently, when we are apart.