The Fluttering Brush

The Fluttering Brush Is this bed you make more than a pillow for your head have you slept beside me inside of me wrapped in the press of longing and brought yourself to where the darkest dreams of losing are told Are you not merely sleeping but waiting for the speech of some eloquent tongue to lure you from this unabated cushion immersed deep in a wanting hung on your whispering breath Have I not loved you enough for that Do you come from some silent sea entwined in these oscillations of passion sending the skipping stones of your heart beat kissing on waters of my soul does it appear to you as circling stars and are you reminded then of how I held you weeping in my arms Is the quiet night teeming with memories of half waking unconfined on bridges and boarders of some other idiom reciting in syllables of love and lust where the wings of your lashes are a fluttering brush How do secrets of contentment rise in simple things you roll from beneath hours between light filters the cunning of day from resting limbs dallying delicately on covers of the bed you make For more than just a pillow have you slept beside me inside of me wrapped in the embrace of yearning and sent skipping stones of my heart beat kissing waters of your soul to where darkest dreams of losing are told