There is a resistance.
A revolution of desire and I am armed w/ the Holy aroma of left over kisses
Bare Breasts.
This kind of love is Anti-political.

And you are made to the size of my body, all the swells and curves, you fall there nicely
Take up my spaces.  Enter me like hot water.  I have maps of your body.  I can trace you in my sleep, my fingertips have you memorized.

And I might be able to feel you in these hollows of my body, dancing over the flat of my back, the curve of my belly.  An echo in my eardrum.

There are books on communism, socialism, and taking off your clothesim and making loveism.
The rhetoric is the same: reach out and destroy those continents of space.
                                     Let two become one.  One nothing.  Until voice is silence and there is only a jazz...hips cradled together.  A saxophone tuning temperature.

I might be able to taste you with my hands, know your song w/ my lips but you slink through my days with quiet anticipation...and I am not a sonnet, I am not a rhyme.

You fall nude against my face and exhale inhale makes me brother sun, sister moon, soul mother of the earth, wet and slowly grooved by subtle glimpses of your humanity.

Your hands reach out to sunrise and full moons.  And your mouth is left parched with the taste of sea salt or mangoes or rosemary or tangerines...

And should I know you'd do me in?  Should I instead say,
sexinessbreathlessspeachlessnonethelesstoplessbottomlessandrogenous
mountainousDesperatenesssomehingnessvoluptousnothingness...
And should we say all the reasons why and then why not and then...Just, lets...
I remove you piece by piece...

And you-
Undo me two at a time, you: this sunshine between my thighs, this beat in the arch of my foot, this drawl on the tip of my tongue.  This canyon of breath.