I want to speak of passion
and all of its untold edges, 
the barely tangible ones 
that touch like a summer mist,
the ones that spring forth 
to take us in a furious storm.

But to speak in such a way
where all sings of intimacy 
and the deepest intensity, 
I have to touch upon everything, 
not just the fire in your eyes, 
I am searching for what 
will survive beyond the flames.

How you open like a curious flower, 
soft petals glistening with 
an endless raw desire, 
how you take me to a place 
of strobing hues that may
very well be the colors of the soul.

How the mere thought of your hands, 
both loving and thrumming with possession, 
still me moments before true contact, 
how to feel the atoms here that cannot be 
named in this most precise human blaze.

Tell me, what cannot be seared there?

And this immediacy once almost crushed me, 
so please do not ever let me run again.

This is exactly what I mean
when I speak of passion, 
the potent current sensed 
like a premonition of touch.

The soft geometry of the body, 
fluid fire licking within a kiss, 
the taste of flowing honey 
when the distance between us
goes from the coveted final barrier 
to twined forms racing a blissful course.

I want to speak of where the edge 
of what you are and will become fall away 
to just leave a true center entirely exposed.

Because heat beckons from the inside, 
from where I will learn the most, 
shivers with need as a lone fingertip
trails this slick fiery fissure, 
glides between swollen lips.

You flex around me the farther I go, 
as if yearning for my fingerprints 
to remain embedded in your depths, 
to always keep a pattern of my identity 
drawn by unique lifelines and loops.

Tell me, what cannot be read there?

This immediacy once almost crushed me, 
but I promise to never run again.

I want to speak of passion, 
how the anima of this engine 
will only roar to life when
everything sings of you.

I know only so many places 
can be marked and torched 
with our words alone, 
I will speak of passion in other ways.

The singeing of curious, supple skin, 
the shuddering electricity in a thrust, 
fullness stretching where your ache
has longed to be soothed. 
the exact moment our flesh ripples 
with light and perfect symmetry.

How you deliver me to fluid shapeless place 
where you finally begin to note 
that I am not some blind passenger 
or some uncertain curious tourist, 
I know all of you in the dark.

You begin to realize that my passion  
has always been an exact mirror of yours
and not just the fire in your eyes, 
I am endlessly searching for what 
will survive beyond the flames.

I want to speak of where engines scream, 
where bodies forget the history we arrived with, 
to just leave a true center entirely exposed.

I want to speak of passion
long after we are vexed and soothed, 
after our cells have danced between 
the atoms that cannot be named.

Where we are past animal thrusts, 
your legs a possessive tight lock, 
as if you wanted the nectar 
from drizzling needy depths, 
deep inside where we learn the most, 
to become a keepsake of where I crossed 
a threshold to burst with raw desire.

Where all sings of only you, 
of the immediacy in arms that 
promise to never once let go, 
to survive beyond these flames.

And when I finally speak of this, 
when the storms calm in your eyes 
and I see the radiant hues of what
may very well be the colors of the soul....

Tell me, what of true passion 
cannot be discovered there?