Sometimes as I walk through my day,
a sentence you've written will drive through my mind like a freight train--
again and again.
Your words are backlit, flashing quckly from my mind's stage to butterflies churning through my stomach in a race to fill my body.
Your words piral down my thigh, wrapping tightly all the way down to my toes.
Your words make me smile to myself, alone in my car, as the world blurs past me.
If I could fill a tub with the soft smoothness of your letters, I would soak in them for hours--
until they had pruned my skin the way only depth of meaning can.
Force of meaning, perhaps.
Thickness, fullness, and ability to pulse through a body and soul like the weaving of silk threads.
Words are like weapons, they wound sometimes--
sometimes they are like weapons the same way that weapons are extensions of bodies,
and they penetrate without wounding, penetrate with healing and filling and ecstasy-spreading lightness.
Words can sizzle through the air, landing on skin with a hiss and a wisp of smoke.
They drip across the windows of my soul and fog my internal mirrors.
Words skid to a stop somewhere in my core, leaving tread marks from the nape of my neck to the small of my back...a map for your hands, your lips...?
Words blaze across the sky, like sky writing with lava.
Words erupt out of you, sticky and salty...yes, like that...and I lick each letter from your thigh and from between your fingers.