Peach and Cream

What I cannot hold

I call him what I cannot hold.

That of which has a tendency to be touched.

Where collective instincts in the subconscious, weave stories of the gems they failed to protect.

Could I not possess your spirit?

For my wings are not the strongest and your faith is bound to dwindle when my armor is beaten to charcoal gray ash.

And when the moment comes, when I’m dried molasses and bitter peaches when I’m fallen green leaves and wet branches when I’m cleansed of hope and dipped in a chocolate fountain of regret, will you be there?

Mountain strength and reserved for cold spaces, will your touch keep me warm?

Tell me when my wings fall off that you’ll care. When my eyes are cast downward and I’m struggling to see the light, pass gentle words that my light is worthy to belong in your spirit.

Care that there would never be a day gone without feeling my presence.

Care that the tips of your fingers will always be warm upon tackling my entrance.

Access granted, unconditional and forever, the greatest desire at your hand in me within you would be the sweetest honey you will ever taste.

Where we are panting, intermixing, rocking slow, slipping into a part of you and a part of me, we dive.

No breaks in fear of losing this moment. In pain, you never cease being generous. Our pleas, yours silent, mine a screech, they heard our love, they heard our dreams.

To be, to feel, to see as one, we slip.

Everlasting, blossoming bud booming, sensual shivers sank rivers finding rapture in the state of ever-being interconnected when you sprayed cream in my peach.

And to top it all off, you didn’t mind I had broken wings.

For that, I call you love.