Part Two: The Only Time I’m Home is With Your Hands On My Hips, Descending

 

I typically live at the centerfold of misery, 

some semblance of my mind stapling the pages of my body 

to the rest of these articles of dissociation. 

Yet, at your touch, this body is a home again

for every portion of me that quakes and thunders,

withdrawing all reason to run from the sound. 

Your fingers trace bone, nails trailing with brutal beauty 

simply a moment in their wake and the tension 

brings my skeleton once more to tremble 

at the altar of your home, too. This palace of flesh 

both parallel and perpendicular to mine as we collide. 

Darling, my darling, what happens when our houses 

are one? When they are transferred through 

the rhythm that you beat into my thighs? 

Will I still know my own? Or is your touch the only key

to the threshold of this being? No matter. I beckon you. 

Open.