Bird in Hand

I feel the poutiness well up in me – beginning as a little grape and grotesquely expanding its tentacles to my limbs, cutting off my blood flow and producing that hollow-limb tingle.

Passionate kisses turn to fantasy that just won’t come true. It is behind the sheer flowing cloth in shadow -- something to witness but not experience – something to covet and be denied.

My soul must rise above my body and I must surrender if two are to remain one. I want passionate kisses deep and inquisitive. I want to wiggle deliciously sliding against slide. I want to mingle searchingly pressing against press.

I will not sacrifice my bird in hand for the fantasy. I will instead nurture my fantasy tenderly – cultivate it privately – while offering complete veneration to my hope that the two will commingle.