Little plastic wrappers litter the waste-
Basket that hides in the corner of my
Bathroom. Little plastic memories taste
Of all the times that came before goodbye,
When he and she and they and me let loose
All the passion that was hidden within,
The way the sunrise would always seduce,
Pulling at them once we'd satisfied skin,
Leaving behind only little plastic
Wrappers, the waste meant to be discarded.
I'd trade every one for the fantastic
Feeling of waking up in a shared bed,
But no one will trade for all my excess,
'Cause little plastic wrappers are worthless.
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2 comments:
There is more to believe than what can be seen or touched.
More is traded than what is in this physical world.
When depths of intimacy are doven fast, deep and surfaced,
striking the heart cords to vibrate resounding, if unheard, loneliness pains us...
In a culture when sex is over or under valued,
when real intimacy arrives in all shapes and sizes and rarely can be named or labeled.
If you can create your own reality, your own relationships,
what would they look like?
The beautiful agony shared randomly and rarely is loved the same at night as during the day,
and the level of passion is unchanged, but transformed.
You have a brave, daring, beautiful soul, and it inspires us all in shifting our worlds.
So the challenge is laid out, and is the question of self knowledge, of creation, of love?
So travel away, for a month, and revisit you, us, upon return from the other side of the globe.
My heart is with you.
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