I have written before of the concerts that inhabit your forearms. Of the animal wise muscles that lay me way down wet and drowsy eyed; how you grease your hands with kindness spiced sharp; how the power flows like honeyed wine. I’ve written of your shameless passion and easy laughter. I’ve written of your love.
I’ve even told of your compassion. How you safeguard my aching bones, and respect my pain. How you dig down into generations of assumptions looking for the truth that also leaves room for my truth. How you push back against frustration when our ghosts don’t play well together. Make me a cup of tea. Kiss my forehead. Leave the room, but not like punishment.
I am trying to construct the words to mirror your fey masculinity; how you swaggerprance up into my orbit, cometflaming and lighteningeyed; how that stronglimp wrist makes my cunt clench at the memory of its smooth length, pounding my depths like a gold sequin sledgehammer. How it in no way keeps you from being a sweet and tender boy; how you revel in the rise of my eyebrow; how you dance the highwire dance until you tumble down gorgeous. Tear spangled lashes like gems. Pink cheeked.
I don’t have all the right words to talk of your ethereal beauty, shining out when your skin rub rub rubs polished rough against my belly. When the pummeling and sweat take hold of fear and heave it out the window. When your eyes are alight and your back is bare and your hands tighten clenching to white then fling into release like birds into flight. When your language is one word strung in a mile long breath that starts and ends with the sound between your teeth.
I have written of how you touch me, after. Like my body is made of grace and feasting. Like you want to pour yourself a waterfall through every aching inward. Like you left something precious nestled in my heartbeat. Something about knowledge. Something about letting go.
I have stitched words together into almost meanings. Constructed sentences like a scaffold where understanding could hang. I can wax poetic; flash fiction like fireflies; even journalism about it, but the truth is that my knowing of you is deeper than words can go. Is made up of midnights and home and passion and art and family and mornings and ridiculous pun riddled banter the likes of which could make us a fortune, were it captured and broadcast.
The truth is love. The truth is doing the hard work; even when discomfort rubs in an altogether unsexy way and that root chakra isn’t even available for conversation. The truth is somewhere between my understanding of the world and yours; and the process of untangling the shadows on both. The truth is my molecules vibrate at a higher intensity when your skin touches mine. The truth is in the trust that lays the rhythm of my blood in the palm of your hand; that lets you swallow my grateful fingers so sweet. The truth is you taste like the end of drought and famine.
Sossity Chiricuzio is a queer femme outlaw poet, a working class crip storyteller. What her friends parents often referred to as a bad influence, and possibly still do. A 2015 Lambda Fellow, she writes as activism, connection, and survival, and is found in places like Adrienne, NANO fiction, Rogue Agent, |tap|, and Lunch Ticket. More info at: sossitywrites.com.