Lovecycle

She's every man's dream come true.
But only for a few.
Because the rest lost out on her essence.

Her valleys and peaks
Want me to be a cartographer again.

And I shall mark the equator and the poles                       
With my ship sailing through a thousand and eight storms
On her...                  

Passion is something she's never known;
It's a history that she's yet to witness.
For what she's seen is not even a fraction
Of what's awakened inside me.

I am becoming a better man
And all because a painter painted 
Love 
On my heart.

My eyes burst
Because they couldn't take it all.

And then I closed my eyes 
To see her 
Staring back through her paintings.

Her sighing heart waxed and waned 
To measure her love 
But our frequency was higher. 

My heart stopped.
Her heart beat.

And death was certain.                       
For it's who could separate their bodies...
But couldn't tear apart their souls. 
So it gave up at Shiva's feet.                       
 
We found us there.
Our lovecycle completed.

A dreamer's dream fantasy

I have fever. 
An intense, cold fever. 

I dream of her nipple, 
Her extended goosebump,
On her satiny skin.
From her areola, my warm breath sends out a ripple.

The breeze howls through the sliding window.
While I slide her camisole off her tattooed back.

But is it me she dreams of? Is it her I make love to?
Or, are our bodies remembering them?
One by one? 

Her moan escapes through the half-unhinged noise of the bathroom window.
And the exhaust fan shoos away our body heat. 

As our otherworldly cats try to meow in our cold balcony... 
We climax as one.
Sitting up together without stopping our perspiration,
We script each other's fantasy. 

Stillness quivering, our fever slowly subsides.
 
Is this love our fever, pain, or something like it? Or, only a bit more...
Is this my very bedroom, my very life?
My dream?
My troubled awakening? 

Is this all a part of another dream from which someone else hasn’t woken up? Yet?