The Gift

I am here in the darkness,

Tracing the lines of your body. 

The smell of your hair lingers on my fingertips, 

Or perhaps only in my memory. 

Your impatient lips are like a crescendo,

Or stalks of wheat, floating in the wind. 

All at once I recall the smell of pine, of rain against the blacktop, of spring soil, and for once my mind is still. 

My eyes open and the locked door appears,

Offset by the sound of your quiet sensual whispers. 

I can feel myself drifting towards it more easily, as I lay my lips against the nape of your neck, and press your body close to mine. 

Untouched by time and space, I begin to panic, the ground crumbling beneath my tired feet. 

My heart begins to bleed out, trickling down into the drains and floating out to sea.

 The swirls of red, and black, and green wash over me and stir me back to life. 

It is always painful, like a stubbed toe, or a self inflicted knife.

I begin to cannibalize myself as I have for centuries. 

This time though, there is a mirror set before me, reflecting the horror back to me. 

Inscribed on the mirror is hope. 

You gave it to me through the soft moans of pleasure seeping from those same graceful lips. 

You gave it to me as I soaked in the folds of your mind, and the ancient fire, burning brightly behind your eyes.

It was an unintended gift, 

The type that reveals a kind heart, 

And asks nothing in return.