Mop and Bucket

The aftermath - J.F Baker You are the bucket to my mop The twisting rope that whips the water awakening a bucket My two hands wrap themselves around you, one above the other Gripping firmly the silver pole I look up to see your blue cap and I am ready. Ready for all that you are capable of, all that you are willing to give. I understand that two way streets intersect with one way roads and I take you firm and pull. Pull you up, stopping only to squeeze the very tip of you. Wet you drip, taking only what you need, water drops back into the sweat bath beneath, Even still, you are heavy in my grasp. Spinning you a full three sixty degree leaves you spread across my floor, Like tentacles your limbs scatter in all directions. There they lay. Impatiently waiting Slowly at first I guide you, pushing you across the white tiles leaving a streak slippery to the touch, Wet the tiles lay, unstained and pure as if it was their first time seemingly untouched Before wine stained the gaps between what is to be seen and what holds us together, even so Excitement builds in side of me. I feel everything and nothing simultaneously. Adrenaline makes me move faster and I take control, swiftly and with intent I throw your body across the room. Left, right, left right harder a figure of 8 and we dance to a song that in a room full of people only we can hear. Only we can feel the intensity, the subtly of a stroke, the meaning of the absence of clear thought, You are not a distraction you are the catalyst and the cure. Bring calm to my home and to my soul I will devour you for making me feel this way, Pulling you closer to me in a state of frenzy we clash with the last corner of unmapped territory. A sense of euphoria comes over we switch our stance and allow space to come between us, Look at what we have done. We have spilt our seed amongst last night’s wine. For a world that lacks context.