Body Language

I used to hide myself deep within you; safe, warm.
My fingers making spirals on your upturned palm -
your spine, a shivering river, wading
between the valley of your shoulder blades.
My hand, floating downstream.

But now, I make no impact,
as if that vital moment has passed;
the still incandescent butts of fifth-floor cigarettes,
that fall like scudding comets,
will not make craters on the path.

I worship you. Polish your body with pride.
Beg you to swallow me, as does the sea to a sun-swelled sky.
Allow me to melt into your creases and caverns -
tangle me like purple Jacob's Ladder;
a flowering climb, deep inside.

Rip me open so I may spill over your skin;
a sunset bleeding into your horizon.
Let me taste the flower of your tongue that flares;
beat me, like barefooted syllables, into stairs.
Peel me, to reveal the sweet fruit within.

I weep for all the years I wore you as a medal.
Are your toes curling over your pedestal?
Yet, instinctively, you hold me, as one drawn to a live
wire and I feel no shock – I realise
I am the one who became the untouchable.