Hips Lips Palms Pushing

One.Passion Fruit

Blue. The blue of your sheets when you’re looking up at me.                                         Longing for the feel of your hand interlaced in mine.                                                                   I’ve memorized the smoothness of your palms.                                                                 Replay the feeling, rub my two hands together,                                                                       close my eyes, see your fingers your palms rubbing back at mine.

Closed eyes, the feel of your palms pushing into mine,                                                                 above my head, hands holding above our heads.                                                                   Your lips pushing their way into mine and my hips pushing their way into yours.

Two.

Hips and lips and palms pushing.                                                                                         Dreams of blue waves, night after night.

My body’s memory of yours.                                                                                                       You take me over, float in a warm a blue violent calm.                                                     Where is the water warm                                                                                                             But in our bed interlaced hips and lips and palms pushing.

Three.

I am clearly not perfect.                                                                                                          Flawed. The same flawedness I love in you. You love in me.                                            Warm morning light, imperfections gleaming.                                                                      Sleep in eyes-blemishes and spots of red rubbed into flesh,                                                     by bodies moving in the dark.                                                                                                      My skin the color of the white of the walls yellowed like the walls with scars and marks  made by skin stretching with growing muscles and bones.                                                    Your skin the color of my breakfast tea before the cream, inconsistencies, blurred lines  where the sun has kissed you and where she has not.                                                        Marks and scars: a past visible.

Four.

Your imperfections taste like the feeling growing inside me and fill me with lovelongevity.

It was when I saw you as more than idea,                                                                                       as more than words, as more than handsome,                                                                               that I knew I would love you.                                                                                                             Love you with that face, your smile so wide and trusting with intelligence and humor.

Five.

Lips- like purple plums- sweet as mangos full as my hips.                                                 Move me, make me shudder.                                                                                                             Thighs tremble, anticipate.                                                                                                                 I know I love you.                                                                                                                           Better than words we show.                                                                                                               Hips, lips, palms pushing. Floating through warmth.                                                                   Blue wave sheets. Love building longevity.

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About detangledprosereview

I am a human rights advocate with a knack for inter-contextually. I am a storyteller, a ceramists, a pan-art lover, a feminist, and a humanist.
This entry was posted in California, Memoir, Poetry, San Francisco. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Hips Lips Palms Pushing

  1. Jenny says:

    you revised 🙂

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