Behind Closed Lids
May 24th, 2005 by Ree Joy
BobReads:
Behind closed lids, I fed on your smile;
nipping, worrying your lips, until they were
reduced to subservience, until they achieved
that particular upcurve which never fails
to shiver the timbers of my resolve. You
always know, and knowing you do gives
my knees the heebie-jeebies; you always know,
when the teasing must end, where your lips,
swollen from the humidity of need asked
and need answered, must lie pliant in pretended
surrender. Where your eyes, bold and glowing
in the darkness, knew to look for me, only for me,
and only because I demanded it, only because it
was your desire to submit to the pleasure.
Behind closed lids, I reached out, a scared finger,
soul-touch against trembling skin, to trace
anguished joy across the molten expanse
of neural receptors which knew me, somehow;
finger to mind, nerve to nerve, shoulder to chin,
exchanging pleadings, until I finally achieved the
quiver of your smile, the trembling breath; touch
slipping between warmth and wet, warmth
accepting tribute, touch finding fire and hearth.
Behind closed lids, I offered a hand to darkness,
until the darkness acquired the density of your
spine: shaped, as it were, and only if I dared; by
feel, by caress, by the seat of my brain, by the
fire of want meeting want; existence confirmed
by existence, meaning discovering definition.
Behind closed lids, I stripped you down
to quiescent dignity, while you took off my
inhibitions; we scoffed at the paltry light of the sun,
because the fire we set lent meaning to the universe.
You gave while I took, you blossomed while I gave
you back to yourself; and all these while we,
so entrenched, so entranced, danced with fireflies.
Behind closed lids, soul surrendered to soul,
with words that only want dared utter,
in speech only need dared scream; and only touch,
the yearning touch, the utter touch, the ice
and the fire, the essence of it, dared broker.
Behind eyes that never opened, the dance became
spring; shoots glistening green, tumescent in the sun,
humid with the dew of birth and earth uplifted
by the eager plow. Behind closed lids, I claimed
what was mine, what was mine to give, until the
rites were done, and winter reduced to mere
idea again; your breath a mist digesting my fog,
until inner sight drew in; plow, farmer, and finger,
withdrawing touch, regretting time, regretting
distance, until sleep barged in, a thief in the dawn,
to banish all, even sight, away, behind closed lids.
“we scoffed at the paltry light of the sun,
because the fire we set defined where
the universe should start, and end,”
I was thinking…
if a galaxy is born with every detonation, with every fission, then perhaps we need not look and wonder at the stars.
I used to have this. I miss all those things “behind closed lids.” It is amazing how, over time, you still have all those feelings inside, but the dream seems farther away.
Beautifully written with a readablity that is very digestable.
And you’re telling me that all these time you were dreaming? Hoo-hah! Man, that was hot!