Space Between Conversation

We talked, we shared explicit details of our lives, and he drawn to the fullness of my body--hips like the Great Mother, and breast round and supple. He through the glance of his eyes, attatched his yearning for arousal, through unseen instinct. An asessement of sorts, like questions, of my identity, to harbor love and desire, and i discreetly wander my eyes to chest. I ready myself in position, straddle on top, mount, and feel the moist wetting of desire-- a ponographic mind--for he I do not love. In the space between conversation, and desire, an invisible cord bonds two bodies--a yoke to capture, and to be captive, isn't that the meaning behind physicality, without the walk down the aisle, without unionized band, no resounding bells, temples fall to the trembling of Lust, rather than an image construct of harmonIous weddedness-- a dutiful husband, and a dutiful wife. Eyes a secret dialogue--scanning private parts, sublty-- an immersion into the language of flesh, and bones.