Member-only story
The Fields Are Rife for Passion’s Delight
A Prose Poem
love melts, simmering on our tongues like passion’s last rites, till we’re craving more than just the flesh of another body thrumming in threads of heartbeat fluster
your kiss destroys the walls inside me, crumbling down to the marrow of all those secrets I sought to hide in the darkest reaches of my being — and I am cracked open, just another hollow shell, till you fill in the broken pieces with the jagged edges of yourself
we met on a rainy, windswept day when clouds engulfed the sky, and we were left to the mercy of broken umbrellas and stilted laughter till we stood in drenched clothing that we would later strip off, piece by piece, in the warmth of your apartment
the expanse of you is just another muse, I’ve found, that I learn with each new touch and frame of scope, till we are dizzy with each other and lost in other worlds that we could never name for the outsiders who try to tip-toe into our hidden galaxies
your lips whisper against my skin in a language I know not by sound but by the feel of your warm breath coasting along all my hidden spaces — till we lie back, limbs overlapping and tangled, in this field of senses we call a bed
I love you — I could say those three words, and they might mean nothing
but I could say nothing and just watch as your eyes speak to me across the room
this is the dance we weave in the fields rife with passion’s delight
