To His Others

I understand the touch of your desire.

Of course I do.

I have felt it in my fingertips, my hips;

I have felt it flooding slowly through my skin,

no sense of sin

only soft delicious light.

I have felt his heat beside me in the night

and slept against his heartbeat.

I know the fire.

So your bright-shadow fingerprints upon his skin

do me no injury.

The ways you shape his history

have made him who he is,

have given him a good and gentle beauty

a strength, a confidence,

a tenderness that washes through me--

breaks down my defenses,

enters into me.

Where your delights have ended, mine begin.

But though I keep him in my heart, he is not mine.

His hands have left their mark;

the bruises bright and clean, the hidden symbols--

where fingers, teeth and leather never scarred--

and still I taste those moments in the dark

his rhythm hard,

insistent, pressing, deep and slick,

my body tense and epileptic.

Yet, I am not part of his design.

He shapes me but he did not make me. I remain

my own, myself, some part of me still free

submitting, willing, but unowned

my every nerve alive, and following his lead, but me

a passenger, only enthroned

in ecstasy a moment.

That moment is not mine, though I alone

have felt it in my veins.

This vivid bliss should never serve as chains.

His pleasure is not mine to keep, nor give--

Possessing him could only cause him pain.

I can begrudge him nothing. And I trust

(for choosing me, I know he chooses well)

that you, his others, hold him as I do

in honest view

and shine beneath the motion of his hands

and scream and weep and shake when he commands

and smile to see him sleep.

Your beauty cannot conquer mine

or alter what he sees behind my eyes,

but only make the gentle rise

of breath inside him all the sweeter sight

for sharing it with others who have seen it in the light

and smiled at the whisper of his voice,

his tongue tasting your name,

your body answering his touch with lust.

So touch him if you will. My fingers trail behind.

Let us smudge each other’s fingerprints with kisses

and laugh, ignoring smaller people’s hisses.

Let them mock, and miss our pleasure. I don’t mind.