Other than yoga, writing saved my life. It is and was a place where I could be completely honest and voice feelings that I couldn’t say to others. Most if not all my poetry has to do with sexual experiences and particularly my grasping for intimacy and also my ambivalence about intimacy. I have a great faith in writing and writing our truth. Even if others do not read it. It has value. It has been placed in the heavens and at least shines is truth on the writer. At least honest writing does. So for me it is also another practice at Tantra communication and my goal of being honest about my life.
The necklace dish
I rummage through a homemade pot for a coral necklace, my
fingers run over fresh water pearls, faceted amber, spikes of turquoise, but the
coral is missing.
Impatiently I search and then give up eager to sip cocktails and make small talk.
The next day I find the necklace in an unexpected place that brings the memory of why.
Reaching behind my neck, I unhook the silver clasp and tentatively brush my mouth
over his lips while knowing it is unnecessary, unneeded.
His mouth opens and the kiss lingers until I pull away. This isn’t why, isn’t
necessary, isn’t needed.
The necklace falls from my hand as my fingers touch the tattoo that circles his neck, some silly
phrases from a movie. He shivers and whispers, “Hurry, I’m hard.”
I chuckle into his neck, “You are always in a hurry and hard.”
I am comfortable with the growing familiarity of demands, eager not to talk or think.
“I’ll be in touch,” ” I know you will be.”
We don’t kiss goodbye or watch where the other goes. I press my hand to my face
inhaling the scent of him like it is cocaine.