Winter Is Coming

A long breath of desire. A suspension of belief. A catastrophic orgasm, chaining you to the mortal body forever. The wind across my chest is your hair, everywhere I am alive I think of you, feel you, feel love for you blooming in my breast and belly and heart like a great, pulsating drum, filled with the warmth of sun and the distant freeze of salt water. Winter is coming. Every day we are filled with each other's arms and cut on the teeth of our lover, we are one leaping shrieking joyful laugh from the abyss. Tip. Restrain from desire, yet restraint is desire. I create structure and collapse into the footfalls of nighttime on a simple trip alone, for milk. There is no baby, no breastfeeding, no constant mantra of internet ego and titillation, no mundane brushing or laundering, washing or collecting. Lovers do not collect, lovers do not sort, categorize-- lovers do, lovers are, lovers feel. This is dangerous. Parenthood calls for order, sorted drawers, dental appointments, dinnertime. Abandon yourself to sex and time softens underneath the kneading of hands on belly- there are no lunches made, appointments noted, vitamins taken. There is the man and the woman and the naked body, as has been since time has known humans, as perfect and alive as a leaf slapping another on the branch or the fox dancing through the grasses. Give yourself to me. This is greedy, urgent even in slow motion, and I organize myself around the ritual of your body. The children glare balefully because they do not want their parents owned by any other, even each other. A phone rings from the other place, our dog barks, the baby cries. I am pulled angrily and flushed from the bottom of the river to the pounding of hands on the shore. Why revive? Winter is Coming.