this is a love song
Jun. 9th, 2012 08:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ashestosnowthis is a love song.
not a dancing of tongues,
friction of teeth against sunwarmed skin;
not tangling fingers in the soft sweet verdure
at the back of your neck. this is letting you in.
but not in the way most spoken of.
this is a song of a different merger.
this is your hands, gentle and skilful,
unbuckling not belts, but armor plate;
this is the sigh of aching muscles, released from torment
at the uncoupling of every latch and clutch,
and your palms unraveling the memory of the weight.
this is your eyes after nine days' traveling,
ringed and bleary, as you rise from our tent,
yet eager for sunrise as you were the first.
this is the shift in your posture, watchful, wilful,
your fingers in mine, that you may augment
this energy's flowing by the gift of your touch.
your magic in mine, empowering, ensconced,
yet all at once rushing and raging, fit to burst,
tearing down the barriers that represent
the illusion that fire and ice were ever discriminate.
do us disservice not; do not demean us.
eliminate from your thoughts that crippling crutch
that tells you: love requires particular response.
these responses, all and more, are goddess-blessed,
should you require that, should your brain soliloquize
that without deity, love cannot mean much.
do not mistake our love for second-best,
sincere gesture's for lust's shallow disguise
or the simplicity of holding hands for a prelude
to the end of the game. until you have danced with fire through us,
frozen a whisper in her outstretched palm, don't call this "tame".
upon our sanctuary do not intrude,
nor judge us right from wrong.
this is a love song.
The subject of non-sexual expressions of affection, and non-sexual yet loving relationships in general, has been on my mind recently; so, of course, as with many things I do not feel entirely comfortable discussing in prose, I wrote a poem about it. It's far from the best poem I've ever written, but I wanted to fit in some specific experiences.
not a dancing of tongues,
friction of teeth against sunwarmed skin;
not tangling fingers in the soft sweet verdure
at the back of your neck. this is letting you in.
but not in the way most spoken of.
this is a song of a different merger.
this is your hands, gentle and skilful,
unbuckling not belts, but armor plate;
this is the sigh of aching muscles, released from torment
at the uncoupling of every latch and clutch,
and your palms unraveling the memory of the weight.
this is your eyes after nine days' traveling,
ringed and bleary, as you rise from our tent,
yet eager for sunrise as you were the first.
this is the shift in your posture, watchful, wilful,
your fingers in mine, that you may augment
this energy's flowing by the gift of your touch.
your magic in mine, empowering, ensconced,
yet all at once rushing and raging, fit to burst,
tearing down the barriers that represent
the illusion that fire and ice were ever discriminate.
do us disservice not; do not demean us.
eliminate from your thoughts that crippling crutch
that tells you: love requires particular response.
these responses, all and more, are goddess-blessed,
should you require that, should your brain soliloquize
that without deity, love cannot mean much.
do not mistake our love for second-best,
sincere gesture's for lust's shallow disguise
or the simplicity of holding hands for a prelude
to the end of the game. until you have danced with fire through us,
frozen a whisper in her outstretched palm, don't call this "tame".
upon our sanctuary do not intrude,
nor judge us right from wrong.
this is a love song.
The subject of non-sexual expressions of affection, and non-sexual yet loving relationships in general, has been on my mind recently; so, of course, as with many things I do not feel entirely comfortable discussing in prose, I wrote a poem about it. It's far from the best poem I've ever written, but I wanted to fit in some specific experiences.
