Grae Gram

Article written by Timothy Prolific Jones

She may as well have stepped out of one of my poems, caramel dipped goddess with double edged intellect. Conversation is supernova, kisses seismic. The thought of touching her rattles my very foundation, heartbeat races richtor, walls and highways are moved miles from their origin. I may have to re-map my emotions. The feel of her skin is like melted butter, soft, supple. She is a tornado in a peach dress with black stilettos, a hurricane with reddish-brown hair, a bronze lipped Ochun. Her river is sweet water, mind Meroitic script, a joyful challenge to decode, a subject worthy of study, a brown eyed pyramid whose smile is the most elegant golden capstone. Let no one steal that beauty to build a Cairo, let no hand strip her of limestone. She is Giza before looters, a Sphinx before desert, a cosmic wonder cast in earthen clay, walking on two legs, a riddle to common men.

And I want her.

She fits in my grasp like a saxophone, like a bass, like a keyboard, my fingers play, her lips leak music, her voice trembles melody, her thoughts derail manicured cool, one glance melts me into lake. She Nile. She feeds me, I fall into Kenya, into Ethiopia, into antiquity, into history, past empires, past stars. I spin, quasar through singularity. Our touch births stars, every kiss electric cloud nebula, every slide of tongue a moment of cold fusion, we combustible liquid, smooth explosion, hand up skirt, fingertips on chest meteor impact, this memory is a crater, an indelible mark, an esoteric secret whispered in bliss. She is Sophia, divine wisdom personified imperfect, she possesses beautiful blemishes.

She is all woman, regal, all queen.

I feel like a king holding her.

–
Timothy Prolific Jones
blog: corporatebboyism.com | twitter.com/tprolificjones