talking through pillows in clouds and echoes

When you and me are thrown,
when we’ve shed our skin
and scales.
After our lips are all different types of wet.
Wet from you,
from me,
to be free,
oiled
and ready to move
some more.
After the throat has exercised
its strings
it sings
and foreplay was like warming up
in moans
and husks
before striding onto a floodlit stage
where we both play the lead
slowing our speed
and our dialogue is of the spontaneous
intimate sort
that makes the audience sink
their muscles into red velvet chairs,
tickles their hairs
and wraps them in blankets
of truth.
When the pressure is off,
on the floor with my dress
there is no need to impress,
when the animals can relax
their coloured feathers
and release their tall necks,
when they can fall back
on to all fours
let their collars curl back up
behind their ears.
When fingers start to tiptoe
gently back around
the paths they hunted on
just minutes before
and they discover
undercover
how beautiful the scenery is
now that they have time to stroll.
When we stop teasing each other
about our differences
and I think,
yes,
I’d like you to teach me
about the complexities of jazz music
and you smile
while I explain
the beauty
in the simplicity of a dance performance.
Your voice sounds sturdy
reverberating through your chest
and I feel beautiful all of a sudden.
So beautiful,
without my mask,
in my bareness,
naked and soft,
once you’ve peeled
away all the hardness
that the wind
and day coated me with.