Heart of Darkness
It's you and me and the flannel sheets. The window is open, and a cool
breeze blows through it. You are asleep - that gift you have of almost
instant slumber - and I, while tired, have not yet earned Morpheus'
regard. So I watch you breathe, head slightly tucked into your neck, hair
spread out in glory on the pillow - dark and light, the two sides of your
soul. You are so beautiful - alabaster skin, softly rounded, so smooth.
I am afraid to touch you, lest you waken, but I cannot resist. You are
warm, and you stir slightly, eyelids fluttering, but you do not waken. I
still have trouble believing this is real - believing that if I kiss you
roughly you will not vanish as a dream. I am shyer with you than I would
be with a man, because I have found that even if I reveal my true self to
men, they do not see me, and so in that way I am safe. But you would see
me, and I do not want to be found wanting. So I touch you gently, though
I would seize you with rough desire; I kiss you softly, though I would
gladly cut myself on your teeth with passion, because this is my true
heart and self, no act, no mask, no protection - to be rejected and denied
would sting and burn worse than air on raw flesh. I dream of falling
back, exhausted, with you, sweaty from sex, but I don't know how, nor
trust myself to yet. Will you stay long enough for me to learn? I was a
virgin - am still in some ways if you don't count sex under the mask with
men - I am timid and afraid of being wrong. Two of the three men I have
had sex with were virgins, and the third might well have been for all the
sophistication that he had - most of my experience has been in dreams, in
my head, or reading. Never put into practice - and at 30 I am overly
familiar with the ways in which reality differs from its record. Let
me have another chance when you return, to make things real, to stretch my
wings, to be more sexy to you, with you, for you. Teach me that when I
touch you you will not break.
6/23/97
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