saint christopher hangs
on the golden chain
throbbing
beneath seventeen and a half
inches of starched collar
taming his neck.
pulsing through the night
shuddering my spine
his thumbs pressed deep
into a salty lake of tears
he traces the M of my hairline as a W.
delicately long throated,
faster and faster,
thumbs pressed into alabaster,
i still do not know you!
burning eyes consumed,
mouths traced, faces pressed
intimate,
still i do not know you!
kissed by your spirit,
drinking in your mind,
could i ever know you?!
till strength comes over
the firmness of my fingers
choking my hand,
palming a stroke
following all four nuchal lines.
raising your head
tracing the hair on the nape of your neck
with my tongue,
i linger behind your image.
on the other side of your face i find your soul...
clinging as i circle,
laying my nose deep in your scent,
i rest at the hollow of your throat
knowing you.
