I feel the movement in my body 

as if it were not my own, but indeed, 

the surrender pulls at my lips, 

and my smile is not for my performance. 

Threads pull at my skin but I feel 

where they go, where they come from, 

invisible to their coloured eyes, 

the centuries stretch into the distance. 

And what more could I ask for? 

Why have I asked for more, no, less? 

Than this, this sacrifice, this submersion into cool water 

where tears are welcome, I am held 

gently in an embrace of 

a mother I've never seen. 

Her approval drips off my skin; 

finally, I have earned my right to dance. 

Wind ruffles through my feathers,

white as the pure sun beating down on my wings,

but I am not tied to air pressure, nor sunlight, nor

Gravity, indeed

The water holds me close to her bosom

as stars float around me,

suspended to that which I have never felt,

fins flare around me, softly billowing

out, past the lines of history

I look upon fondly.

Shifting rocks on the coast fall to my fingers,

my favourite place, a cave from which

I look out upon this

kingdom, of mine. 

if time was water,

I would be as dry as the parched desert

from whence you came,

to which you retreat so easily

while I cannot follow

my roots too used to

the solid earth, they do not shift with this

sandy tide to which you take

too easily

my dear, water me

do you not see how dry grow these leaves?

only sand flies around you, so at home

your cracked skin your armour against

my cries, my dear

I only wish for you to stay still

for a moment beside me

but so dry has your skin grown

that sand whisks you away before

you can answer. 

My breath lingers in the air but I long,

for yours to join me 

These silken sheets feel all too cool on my skin,

But roses,

Would have nothing on you

Heat blossoms from inside but you

refuse my moans,

Trapped away in your hurtling metal cage, 

my dear, I long for your skilled and heated touch.

Oh, how these cool sheets crumple

From passion, their silken indifference 

no match for,

this hot ardour and passion, 

these ripples are but candles 

to the flame

begging for you inside me

Writhing, how can I contain 

this possession of violent desire? 

I long, 

for a little death. 

Sand flows easily through my fingers

Just as easily as 

your words

Spinning in my ears because

Where does it start? 

Or end? 

I can't see the end, nor the beginning, and yet, 

You remain so convinced here, 

where I live, where you cannot see, 

that it must exist, you insist, 

There! You point, 

and yet, isn't it dark for you? 

Why remain so persistent? 

When blindness is the truth you have yet to accept

Love, 

There is no start, nor end, 

Here, there is but endlessly looping words, 

spinning around each other, but I 

can rise above now, 

Now, the truth becomes apparent, 

I was never blind; 

Your words flow past me, 

Their power stripped but then again, 

Hadn't they always been? Here, 

You've never moved, but I 

will break free.