Sometimes, <br />I think what I need, <br />is for a stranger to slowly braid my hair <br />while I listen to a soft voice <br />sing my poetry back to me, <br />like a hymn brimmed with passion, <br />but whispered. <br />I’d like to hear conviction in the voice, <br />fused with perception, <br />while deliberate fingers <br />trace erogenous shapes on my back, <br />overtop the cashmere or the silk, <br />hinting at slight indecency. <br />I need to hear subtle laudation, <br />when I stretch my limbs, <br />or walk about unclothed, <br />unabashed and secure in my skin. <br />Call me flower, or saint, <br />or something that shines light, <br />and for a while, <br />I might let myself buy the glory. <br />A warm, ethereal breeze, <br />could push my hair back <br />and let it fall <br />in a way that alludes to design, <br />making my comeliness seem incidental <br />but also indisputable. <br />I would love on my own terms, <br />in a way that doesn’t involve duty, <br />undulating while the lights glow low, <br />luxuriating in the wealth of sensations, <br />as the night finds its own pulse <br />in our rhythm. <br />Then, I‘d fall asleep, <br />without the encumbrance of introspection, <br />or the heavy weight of contrition. <br />A deep, twitching, converting sleep, <br />until the sun would bleed from the horizon, <br />rousing me just enough <br />to allow myself the pleasure <br />of believing it was real: <br />this spirit’s revival.<br /><br />Tara Teeling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-recipe-for-resurrection/
