instant recognition

Words: West Coast Inspiration

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I'm in love with a poet.

See he’s a dichotomy—a man of few words until the  spotlight is on him, needing the anonymity of a public forum to release the valve on his private pain.  

I just met him yet have always known him.  

Just the ding of a message makes my heart race, my belly clench and my palms tingle.

We've been riding the same frequencies in parallel universes for centuries.

Then our symbiotic starships  collided.

And the collision was a synergetic vision and though I'm not one for superstition, some meteors carrying our DNA must've had it planned for  millennia .

That he and I would meet in the glow of this prism.

A man for whom chivalry is not a ploy to make a play for my panties...it's a state of being.

All I know is that when I saw him incarnate for the first time,--even before words were exchanged, he grabbed my  purse, slung it over his shoulder like my belongings had always belonged there and guided me through the door with one hand at the small of my back and the other  gently wrapped around my waist.

And it felt like home. 

Instant, visceral, spiritual recognition.

My  thoughts are safe on his lips, my feelings secure in his heart.

We're not perfect.  Just perfectly matched in mind...locked together, intertwined like the double  helices that make us, us.

So when at last we shared the same plane of time and  space, there was a cosmic eruption leading to a reduction in fear, inhibition,  insecurity...and clothing.

No, not literally—just removal of all pretenses we use to present ourselves to the world.

He stripped my brain and heart at first glance. I stood there bare and naked, but not exposed to the elements because  he was protecting me.

He covered me with his cerebellum, cradled me in his cranium and laid me down to rest, safe and warm, surrounded by his synapses, my head cushioned on his heartbeat.

His frontal plate swells with the knowledge and emotion pulsing in his cortex...his brow furrows with intense thought like a Klingon, and all I can do is cling on to his every exhalation lest I be ripped away from his gravitational pull, sucked into a black hole, flung into another dimension, spinning out of control.

Would my universe ever realign again if I squander this gift? How could I risk it?

We communicate through breath so our lips were drawn together like magnets to iron shavings, like the needle on a compass is drawn to true north and we wrapped around each other like octopi  conjoined twins...nothing but a tangle of limbs.

He put my moods to music in a  method that matched his madness with a tempo that tangoed off his tongue and merengued back up my spine and out of my mouth to be reborn as a new thought.

He gave me my words back instead of stealing my spirit.

He was buried so deep  in my soul before our eyes ever even met, you would swear his thoughts were oil  wells penetrating my core with pistons pumping and bringing the dark richness
beneath bubbling up to the surface.

I don't remember how I breathed without it.

And that's why I thank him,repay him the only way I know how for reawakening this part of me.

I pay it forward using  my nouns, adjectives and verbs as currency.

I'd been holding my breath metaphorically.

The looming silence a sickness that had paralyzed my lungs.

I didn't even realize I  hadn't been breathing, and then all of a sudden...

Gasp.

Inhale.

Exhale.

An explosion of air from my verbal respiratory system because he was there performing elegiac resuscitation.

He's the poetic paramedic equipped with the oxygen and chest  compressions that saved me just in the nick of time from certain brain death.

My name is sacred on his tongue.

His uvula caresses each syllable of it.
It gives me strength.

I could be standing with my feet in the abyss of the deepest ocean crevasse, and I'd still have my nose higher in the air than the pinnacle of  Everest.

He ain't tall, and I ain't small, but he has no trouble lifting me up, supporting me.

Rename that famed African peak Kylamanjaro because my head is in the clouds.

I'm swimming with cirrus, skipping with the stratus, communing with cumulonimbus.

I wish my legs worked so I could run to him. Dance out this dream diorama.

Yet I know to him that  doesn't matter because my mind has wings.  

And then as quickly as he  appeared, he was gone.  

Until he reappears, my subconscious will  continuously conjure visions of a future duet.

And I'll remember how when  he hugs, his arms are my cocoon.

I'll recall that his lips are lethal, his eyes  enchanting, his artsy intellect the ultimate aphrodisiac.

I just need a sample from his larynx…to place my ear there to feel his vocal chords begin to hum and catch the vibrations that are about to give birth to syllables.

I just need a sip from the mouth that produces such powerful words.

Perhaps that will allow me the chance to collect some poetry by osmosis and bottle its perfume in the Crystal decanter of my memory to recreate an image, the perfumed aroma of a
perfect night.

And that is why his voice is on repeat in my head like my  favorite track until we meet again.

As I said, I'm in love with a poet.
And, yes...he does know it.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Don't get too excited. It's inspired by a fellow poet. Not autobiographical.  Plus...aren't all poets a little in love with each other?

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