Just Is…

Just Is…

My pen slips across your existence,

honey dripping from my fingertips like

silken lines walking through flame,

parting petals and seas. Moving

from dust to blue like incense spirals

debating perfection, my tongue touches cheek

inside from out. Tasting skin and spice

I start to innocence on my pleasure,

roam my hands on choruses beckoning

ahhh…  the easily erased destroyed

nestled comforts to melt me, silhouette

my resolution and drown me

in the moment. Just is, just us,

justice… essence of the singular ‘we’.

 (c) A Hannan


8 thoughts on “Just Is…

  1. Thank you for taking the time to visit my space .
    Your poetry is beautiful to read and has a unique romantic style
    The imagery especially in this poem is a romanicists delight

  2. You like the featherlite, the tinkle, the glisten. I like your style, if I allow myself to let my analysis go and let it through, I feel it true.

    On the sand dune, I met you, with your tune, riding in the chariot of the raindrop

    Thanks to Pierre for leading me here. Beautiful gems lain in sea of shadow

    • Smiling, at your analysis of me…

      A single raindrop, free falling through the sky and winning the infinitesimal odds of landing on the beauty of her landscape. Coursing over the first nobility, her brow, the slow arc that is the curve of her cheek as her face is turned upwards seeking more liquid sunshine from heaven, the slow, almost agonizing drop, almost as if reluctant to part from the warmth of her skin, only to land on the glorious wonderment of her breast. A symphony of sensual delight echoes as a path is traced between the greatness that is her being, the outer perfection that is her beauty and the inner aura. Feeling her heartbeat as the downward journey continues, almost as if tracing her very soul across the flatness of her stomach and past that dimple, that indent, where life itself began and she was nourished. Speed increases desire, only to be abated by the swiping of her finger, the merest scooping and then transported not to oblivion – flicked away to nothing – instead brought to the crimson delight of her lips, the briefest of hesitation before the ultimate reward, and a whisper of “i want you” and then consumption, rebirthed upon her tongue, becoming one with all that is desired.

  3. “the slow, almost agonizing drop” draws the vista on her eyelash, sliding back and forth, the hum on the strum sent to the man reclined in the hollow of her fecund belly sprouting vegetable, fruit and flower; the man piping a tune via green organ of her mounds either side; nutriment, music, shade and heart

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