Confession

© 2010 Sandra Jean-Pierre

I feel like anything I write at this moment will be a confession
and I am not one to be confessing too much lately,
since I've not much to confess

but that I want to love you

like the stars
melding into the space that surrounds them,
to where there is no distinction between
the essence
of star-life and darkness

I want to consume you

the way poured molten glass
kisses room temperature water
with a sizzle - I will
evaporate my way into your skin
so that the only way out
is when you cum for me

letting lose your inhibitions
like the rivers flowing through the Serengeti

I want to show you

that the trail between your breasts
has more secrets
than the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs,
that your sweet love moanings
can be the basis of one hundred
seraphim song riffs

and that if we're patient -
oh sweet, profound, patience -
we might just find
the reason that
two women are able
to know the face of God
and have it make sense

since
blessed unions,
are only "supposed" to happen
between women and men...

but
admitting these things
would constitute a confession
and I'm not one for confessing
anything...

except how much the thought of
touching you (?)
keeps running through my mind
as each time the rocking gets sweeter and sweeter
and you giving up that surrenderer's sigh
in my ear
is exactly what I need to hear

because Our loving?
is enough to make
grown women cry,
enough to make devout clergy genuflect
asking God why
Us and not them?

and my answer?
You'd have to be a woman, loving this woman
to understand...