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My breasts hunger to be cupped, held & kissed.

Released from the bondage

of this thin nightshirt, loose and supple,

Ethiopian cotton.

Yet somehow stifling right now.

Who deserves the honor of revealing them?

Who has proven their devotion to love,

to mystery, to the endless unfolding

that drips softly like mist around us.

Slowly dissolving time like sugar coating

that hides the sweet chocolate inside.

These are the moments I yearn for a woman.

To cradle her breasts, lick her lips.

To breathe between her legs.

To celebrate all that has been overlooked,

left hidden, even denigrated

and tossed aside for too long.

My heart pounds.

Feel called to lift Her once again to the throne.

Straighten Her crown, kiss Her hand,

and sing Her praises to the sky.

Rather than whisper them in the night

out of some sort of misguided protective gesture.

It is time to tell our own story.

Stop catering to their myths and sensibilities.

Pretending as if Her thighs hadn’t the power

to raise and crush mountains.

Her veins flood the rivers and fill the seas.

Her breath let loose the wind,

and the sun, rise and set

with the blink of Her majestic eyelids.

As She opens & closes the days, months, years.

Who can I kiss that understands this?

Who will fill my body like a sacred vessel

with the rush of molten lava, of passion & awe.

Melt me into remembering

the magic that pulses around me.

The urgency of NOW,

swirled like a sumptuous cocktail with the calm of eternity.

Who will I choose to be:

wave or ocean?

Or surrender to both.

Swelling with arched back

to bursting

then crash and release

back to water and foam.

I ride the waves like a devotee,

and She delivers me baptized back to the shore.

To begin the next moment refreshed, reborn.

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