At Least

Knowledge isn't tangible, so what is it in these brain cells of mine that contain the crystalline memory of the way your hands run over my body like a goblet runneth over, liquid endlessly caressing down the smooth curves of the cool glass? And the phantom pressure of your fingertips against the tightness of unwanted fabric; of the grappling grasp you have on the clasp of my necklace, removing it with delicate force throughout the course of our fine diner meal? All of this so real I can still feel the rake of my hand break through the thick tendrils, the halo of ivy that surrounds some other distant cortex that my respiration revolves upon. Is it an excess of hormone that keeps this vivid sensation in my mind with your lips on mine and your tongue tickling my spine, nipping at the bud what little objection I had as my palms ran to your strong neck and dug in for something deeper? I can feel you swimming in the cytoplasm of my cells; in the marrow of my soul; in what little warmth my body holds that you give and taketh away in the breath, in the magic sway of your hips as I dip under your subconscious hypnotism. If lust grows through mitosis, you are the mutagen; the cells dividing faster and first the pulse rising quicker and quickly I find myself in no position to carve you out of my life without striking any of the vital organs you've managed to wrap yourself around. I can never see these tumors becoming malignant, but isn’t it benign for them to remain benign wasting time that could have been spent within a moment of true bed sheet love that leaves a girl weeping? At least she can weep for something. I feel nothing. At least I can weep for days.