She belongs to herself.
And when she patiently opens
the entire universe before me
it’s almost too much to take at once.
It’s the moment before a supernova,
before the raw matter of us is
seared by celestial bliss we were
never meant to really understand
We can only possess such power
for moments at a time,
otherwise we’d be torched alive.
We were only supposed to
enveloped deep within them
as I am sheathed by her,
seeing eyes widen into
rainbows glowing and bursting
as if a storm of light has always
been waiting to break from a touch.
The push and pull of bodies as natural
as tides churning and lapping shores,
the salt of seaspray intermingled
with nectar pouring from soft rinds,
succumbing to a gravity that is
unconcerned with our place,
the force that binds us closer
in the moment of our raptures,
always hungry to reach for more.
I wanted to reach inside deeper
than you’ve ever felt before.
And I kept looking for a ring covering
her bare fingers or for tattoos
or marks along her neck’s flesh
like a hunter searching for signs
of passing through hallowed territory
as if any of these can tell me she’s mine
or if she belongs to someone else.
She only belongs to herself.
It’s only in the moment where
possession truly takes its hold,
and the universe is warmly parted,
the fleeting second to show
who she is and always has been,
but I know she’s made of more than fire,
more than searing nectar and rainbows,
it’s almost too much to take in at once.
To be able to reach deeper inside
than anyone ever has been before,
to possess one for much longer
beyond our moment of raptures
may very well torch us alive.
She belongs to no other but herself.
