Everyday (Every day)

You tell me you are not afraid.

You tell me what you require of love - speak of

magic/passion/making love

everyday

every day.

And I am

afraid.

Not for what I feel for you.  

I trust my deep desire for you, 

beyond words (I want more of you)

everyday

every day.

I trust my willingness to

open my magical and passionate

self to you (I will open for you)

everyday

every day. 

A ripple moves from belly to throat, beyond and back again.

Will you see me, when I open?
Will you know me, when I open? (I will open for you)

My magic is of the earth: steadfast and mostly silent

unless you listen closely.

My passion clamors with too many words

do you know what I mean?

My everyday is just that: commonplace, ordinary

it's all I have to give.

The ripple/the wave/ the tide

moves me forward into the fear, beyond and back again.

Because maybe, you will. 

Magic

Everything feels

so hard and it’s

raining outside.

Sleep is hard; I blame

hormones. But red wine

lingers, telling another story.

In my mind
I see you as you
were - on the opposite edge

of the couch,

legs stretched across

my lap and a million

miles from me.

You take my hand,

say something sweet.

But distance makes translation
difficult-the tender heart that
flourished in
morning love made hours

before buttons possibility

in a dense cell coat.

I wonder, then, about magic.

And -
if there is enough,
between us and
the million miles stretched therein,

to sustain.

If wanting is all that is required, we

are home, my love.

We are home.
Morning bursts full
and alive; we can rest in her

arms.

Tell me, again, something sweet.