Ophelia Breathes

Under a cool blanket of Night, I am made of  mists and moonbeams.
Communing with nothing more than my own sense of life, more alive after dusk,
My mind ambles aimless, listing in each moment,
willingly carried aloft by the libertine sincerity of starlight.
Interrupt fades in,
and slips past my awareness, so draped am I across these moments.
Abrupt and alluring, its protrusion into this space asks no permission,
Nor does it give so much as a by your leave.  
It simply begins with the plucking of a recollection, and I am flashed backward across hours, days, weeks.
Scented breezes, crisp in evening-bloomed fragrances strike a recollection of Her.
And, at once, time and space halt, and into the pause of this memory, she returns,
Slowly moving into my body, her feet traverse on the taste of minted lips and eucalyptus.
In these moments, nothing moves but her,
the Moon, chained around her wrist, peers downward  in its own pleasure,

as her vision takes over my being.
Her shroud is soft light, her hair wild and piercing, blending like a knife blade into the colors around her.
Leaving behind how and on what magick she returned, my eyes, fevered and rushing with burgeoning moisture flood with her mastery of my senses.
With a simple beckon of her plunging gaze, she enters my body of memory and we dance, again.
Visions swirl, and I reel with her, against her, through her.

Control is now an illusion, and I take leave of my senses.
She authors these moments by the merest whim,
Dictating them to me, a heady verse dripping with an exquisite hunger,
prismed through her own version of the Divine.
My form is no longer my own.   It melts into her forming a familiar entity composed of two.
Her voice becomes my voice,
my breath flows from hers.
Hearts swirl around each other, circling, spiraled into the song written by Infinity when the Universe was young.
A wordless symphony begins to rise over the din of collision.   It is raised up aloft into the still night air, meandering behind the lift of our bodies.
Expression unbound from speech.
Heat, the raspy tension of a timeless ache, begging madly to be released,
crying to set itself free into the fiery chamber our forms create.
Lips speak into each other without need of phonetic chains,
a flavour of touch,
a rich and velvety taste of her luscious frenzy,
Sounds from my throat voice what words fail to reveal.
And so it begins . . .
The table set,
Eat your fill, and this tale will drag you along behind.  
It will skin you alive in pleasure, chop your clarity into pieces and drop those over the edge of the jagged cliffs with a laughter far removed from sanity.

These moments ride me like goddesses.  
She takes the helm of my resolve; I am a wind shear in her hand.
Lucidity, gone in a whoosh.  
The room is emptied of air, and beauty consumed in her flames.
Blown backward into the walls with a merciless force flown at my soul by her searing gaze,
impassioned throes nail the slave to her altar.  

Caveat.  
You must become what you read from here,  in order to join the mystery of her,
the mystery of us,
a vortex of two souls who have seen each other so long and so completely, they have forgotten more about each other than most will ever know of someone else.

I make no promise of your sane return.  
If my Muse allows, you shall see clearly again.
Pray she feels generous, this night.

I speak to her, from this point forward, the event horizon of her memory that hence floods all that I am.

--- I have no more composure, now.

--- Steady yourself, Foolish One.   This isn’t your Dear, Sainted Mother’s Merry-Go-Round . . .

See through my eyes as images blur . . .

Down you go.  

Eyes, misted.  

Thirst and the swirling dusts of a moon too far away . . .

The honey of a memoried fountain spilling over the touch of my fingertips,

And down into the chasm of my own dry places.

Cracks in the earth of my desert grab with clenching hunger, the

thundering cascade

of you,

drinking you down like a supernova,

flung backward into primal and ache,

whip-driven madness seeking only to slake the thirst for the tsunami

whose inundation breaks over your thighs and into my lips,

All at once and with a madness of abandon.

One cannot even pen thoughts, the world is spun so into a twist of passion.

I am a screaming lock whose kiln-fired body is maddened by a ravenous

need for the key

that is you.

Here, lies a wild and gaping grip in my teeth to feel your silvered push

into the recesses of that lock's shadows,

and the mask-exploding annihilation of as many layers of rusted ache,

blown apart, surged upward and away

by a flick of your wrist that stirs the tumblers . . .

Consciousness is a parched floor set on fire by the searing fuel,

consuming my throat in soft insanity . . .

a flicker of flame that singes the skin of my lips,

but only warming them with a rushing rip,

in the same way the graze of a shotgun blast warms the surface that it

kisses with an opulent and exquisite obliteration.

Oh yes, to be sure of it, I want you with each vibrative shiver

of every reverberation.  

Every note struck upon those bells ringing between my heart and lungs,

knows your name.

They announce it upon the waking hour,

fervently threading it purposefully into the shadows,

fabricking those tapestries into a most tempered mist,

hanging their shimmer like a moon in my own heart.

*Exhale . . .*

Still lying between her smooth, twitching knees,

Poetess rests her head upon the Muse’s belly,

a voice still quietly humming with effervescent music,

wordless and soft.

The room’s hanging dust scattered about only

by the impassioned sounds

of a woman's simmering crave for the air Muse breathes

into her very body.

This sweetness and sting bringing it to life,

in a splendor of colour and flash.

Floating, buffered in dew,

I am suspended in her fragrance still kissed upon my lips,

pitching and poured out into pockets of air

which partition the very molecules, of the waxing night.

Floating . . . floating . . . floating . . . floating . . . floating . . . away . . .

-g.

Image Credit:
"Ophelia" 
Inspired by John Everett Millais
By Kerry Darlington