My loving is an ocean.
An ocean out of which I pour
Happily I pour. And it pleasures me.
My loving is clasping your hand and not letting go
even in hand-in-hand sweat.
My loving is running my nails against the back of your neck,
grazing your skin,
making your skin rise in little bumps
and grazing it further still,
until the bumps go back down.
My loving is keeping quiet and still
to watch you enjoy the breeze blow dry autumn leaves into our vicinity; to watch you enjoy it permeating our silence.
My loving is removing off of your shoulder a dry leaf that has landed there.
My loving is buying the white Kit-Kat instead of the brown one on days that I know you’ll come around –
because I know you like the white one –
and I want for you to eat with me.
My loving is little open-mouthed kisses on your mouth
to remove the little white smudged bits of chocolate from your lips.
I know that my loving flusters sometimes
and that it draws you to the edge at times,
to the edge of ways of loving that make you want to draw back and fall into yourself again,
that make you desire to make your way back to what you have come to know –
you sometimes retreat for fear of stepping into the unknown –
but, baby – peace.
Still your inhibitions.
Allow not for them to shake you.
I stand ready with my kaleidoscope of a heart,
out of which pour my foreign ways of loving –
find solace there.