Rinse, Repeat

“I question this existence,” she said as her lips slowly grazed her own freshly free shoulder—still warm with the scent of detergent, intemerate to the touch of her lips.  Mouth slightly open, inhaling her flavor.  Human.  Warm.  Flesh.  

The past, ardent like the rosy flush of skin greeting chilling breeze: suddenly freezing and fleetingly warm, had resurfaced. And ensconced by the newly evocative fragrance of laundry she flirted with familiarity, a past lover, who somehow still managed to knot her solar plexus with perplexing sensations.

“It’s O.K.”  he said.  “To simply state that you marvel at the universe and feel all that you express and all that you conceal.  It simply means you’re paying attention.

There is a drama in your existence--you are a miracle.  

It was chemistry,

it was chance,

it was chaos

it was circumstance

and it all feeds your wonder.  

There, your ancestors, across the table from each other, sat, felt and could n’er conceal the chemistry. It was that color, it was that glance, it was that game of chance that begot your name. And your miracle is grateful for all the pieces played and playing.  

The human genome smorgasbord codes the chaos that abounds inside of you.  

This surface is simply the canvas for a chance dance of circumstance.”

The past, a playground for the siren song of her abstract mind promised and persuaded as she slackened her leash to wander--to sit across a table, discuss love, and wonder if his blood boiled like her blood boiled as her cheeks burned.

She flushed with a stir of sanguine action deigned to remain chained to nature by skin—a blush arose.  It was the kind of rosiness inclined to slip and slide, over the corpus callosum of body and mind to coax the cheeks to reveal you’re thinking…things.  He muddled the mundane with splashes of sex, waxing aphrodisic--she knew the smell of laundry would never be menial again.  

And she’d forever avoid the fluff and fold.

The Ramparts

It looked swollen from her window,
The sea. She saw the shallows
Wrought with waves, smashing rocks, persistently
Creating sand for shores.

Amassing incessant shifting sediment on shaky floor,
Creating castles on silt foundations,
She loved none the less, yet all the more,
For risk inspires ardent loving, borne.

With foundations made of sand
Walls are built to help withstand the stormy weather
Retaining walls to ward off waves and water damage
To protect the heart from wreckage and
Cheeks from streaks and saltwater.

It felt swollen in her chest, her heart.
She felt the shallow breaths
Wrought with weir, goading love, relentlessly
Re-creating walls for wrecking.

She sat, perched, and watched
As sun sew rays with grays changing day to night
It was a time catalogued in colored sunsets, in tactics–
mechanics, maneuvering
the organic pitter-patter patterns of the heart of war.