Pentacle

It is new, this feeling,
either from forgetfulness
or a genuine lack.
She cherishes the memory,
the feel of him, smooth skin
under dark hair,
their soft, delicate, ancient language
intermingled on dark blue sheets.
She loves the quickness,
the abandon and need
in his movements.

She loves the heaviness of him
laying atop her, keeping her pinned
to the earth, out of the memories
that make her cold and distant.

She loves all the words
that would mean nothing if you wrote them down,
but that hold all the assurance and beauty
she'll ever need from him
when he whispers them to her
in the cool shadows.

She loves the smell, the taste, the black-
and-blur images of closed-then-opened eyes,
the softness of un-weathered skin.

She loves this act,
this saving grace,
this wholly innocent, wholly ancient binding
that unites his most dearly beloved atoms
with her own.

It is the sum & total,
the closest they can get.
He is her land --
her earth, fire, water, air,
spirit --
and

she loves him.