The Man of My Dreams

The Man of my Dreams:
my love, my heart's mate and soul's companion--
he is my opposite, my inverse, my antipode.

He is tall, as I am small
He is fair, as I am dark
He is golden, as I am dun
His eyes are brightest blue; mine are dullest brown
He is strong; I am soft
He is hot; I am cool
He is ever moving, ever striving; I am placid, and still
He, virile in the flower of manhood; I, effete, a sere and unbegetting vine
He demands, and I yield
He commands, and I submit
He enters by force the gates I have flung open
and seizes with violence the tribute I offer
Ruthlessly He ravages what He already possesses
and mercilessly despoils His own city
He takes fiercely that which I give freely
and ardently He plunders the house of His heritance.
In return
He fills my emptiness
and fecundates my desert,
making fruitful the barrenness of my heart
and planting flowers in the waste of my affections.

Were I to meet Him,
I would shrink from the brightness of His eyes
and fly from His face
(though with many a backward glance).
Then would He pursue me
(were I beautiful, and other than I am)
and though thrilling the hunt, more so its end.
Sweetly then would He gore me
and tenderly impale me;
crucified on His lust,
I would dance upon the firmament,
transfigured by the love of my Love,
transformed by the desire of my Heart's Desire.
Then should I know the joy of yielding
and the ecstasy of submission;
the rapture of the fulfilment of both our cravings
-- my delight in giving; His in taking.
I would offer myself on the altar of His passion,
falling upon His sword,
and breaking my body on the rock of His being
—broken, to be remade
slain, to be revived
ruined, to be restored
torn asunder, I should be made whole
consumed, I should be born anew
entombed in His embrace,
my soul should ascend to the heights of Olympus,
enfolded in His arms,
my heart should fly free,
soaring to the heavens like a prodigal star,
there to shine, more radiant than the sun
having now an owner,
a master,
an arm on which to rest
and a shoulder on which to lean;
a home to return to
and a haven in the storm.

After loving, and resting a space, and loving again,
we would rise
and go together to the house prepared
wherein we would dwell
the days of our appointed span
and wherein He would teach me
the dealings of love.
Pleasure and pain,
crooning and cursing,
gentle hands and rough fists,
soft lips and sharp teeth
—all He bestowed I should receive alike
with tears of adoration.

What strange, wonderful sickness is it
that makes a wooing of ravishment
and a victory of surrender;
that feels a bite as a kiss,
and a blow as a caress?
Though it be perilous,
yet I would taste this love-sickness
—taste it, yea, drink it;
let it pass over my flesh like a wind of swords;
let it sing through my veins like a river of fire,
that the Man of my Dreams might love me,
though by His loving He devour me,
and that He might possess me,
though He hollow me out by His possession.

Thus would I love the Man of my Dreams,
were He anything more than a dream.