Lovemaking

Lovemaking

I pull my arms back and stare at her,
As if a shy lover, waiting for consent.
But consent for what? To violate her with my touch?
She is already there before me, her presence her assent.
She is waiting. Looking at me brightly.
Pure. White. White. White.

There is no coyness,
No pretense at embarrassment.
There is just the blinking impatience
Of one waiting to be used,
Waiting to be painted
In every color,
Painted with violence
And joy
And peace
And sorrow
And everything
In between
And in extreme.

I feel a lump form in my throat.
I haven’t the words, I realize and I tell her so
But she says and does nothing.
She just waits, blinking blankly all the while.
Given no other choice, I reach out.

My fingers tremble as I touch her,
Each finger pressing the right keys,
Filling her and marring her whiteness.
And with each succession of contact,
A word is formed
Followed by a sentence
And then a string of paragraphs
Until finally a story is finished
Late in the night, in fourteen pages,
Double-spaced.

I bid her sleep, as I, tired, close my eyes.
There is editing to be done tomorrow.