(no subject)
“Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone.”
Perhaps true in a sense.
Perhaps a metaphor is in order: thrills come in waves.
I don’t think that really holds, either.
I’m approaching forty-seven. (And the only “shock” of that is the realization that it is, indeed, more than half over…) And while my excellent eyesight is going, and the hearing is deficient when there’s background noise, still the senses as a whole are improving.
Especially when all the senses are in concert. (Italian, concertare, ‘harmonize.’)
Touch is the master sense.
The light touches her, reflects to my eye, and she touches me from distance,
dress flowing,
hair brushed by the virtual wind she creates as she quickens her step to meet me.
Her heels snap trills in the air,
a pressure my ear is keen to hear, and is often the warder for the eye.
Her body is a perfumer, creating the scent to allure a lover,
and as she moves she smolders in such,
she leaves that trace which I feel olfactorially.
And she steps in close,
the lips touch,
the tongue tastes
these touches of her a chemistry of yes.
Finally the fingers feel.
Ears apprehend appreciation, quickening,
the tongue tastes that subtle flood
body feels her breath quicken, her body come alive in passion,
her energy streams into me
and she knows
and she burns brighter
and my fingertips are the sable brush
dipped in her siennas,
and we are art of the six senses,
the canvas, touch.
Perhaps true in a sense.
Perhaps a metaphor is in order: thrills come in waves.
I don’t think that really holds, either.
I’m approaching forty-seven. (And the only “shock” of that is the realization that it is, indeed, more than half over…) And while my excellent eyesight is going, and the hearing is deficient when there’s background noise, still the senses as a whole are improving.
Especially when all the senses are in concert. (Italian, concertare, ‘harmonize.’)
Touch is the master sense.
The light touches her, reflects to my eye, and she touches me from distance,
dress flowing,
hair brushed by the virtual wind she creates as she quickens her step to meet me.
Her heels snap trills in the air,
a pressure my ear is keen to hear, and is often the warder for the eye.
Her body is a perfumer, creating the scent to allure a lover,
and as she moves she smolders in such,
she leaves that trace which I feel olfactorially.
And she steps in close,
the lips touch,
the tongue tastes
these touches of her a chemistry of yes.
Finally the fingers feel.
Ears apprehend appreciation, quickening,
the tongue tastes that subtle flood
body feels her breath quicken, her body come alive in passion,
her energy streams into me
and she knows
and she burns brighter
and my fingertips are the sable brush
dipped in her siennas,
and we are art of the six senses,
the canvas, touch.