Eila Mahima Jaipaul (11/26/1971 / New York)

See, You complain that the words
won't come, but last night
you wrote me out like an epic.
Your touch called me back to my body,
that unused thing.
I didn't know what to call it,
it was hardly even mine.
Just a costume, I borrowed
to hide what we all hide
under our skin.
You drew me
with the gesturing of hands.
You conjured me,
made me out of nothing
but an ache called desire.
I need the reminder
of your lips, the taking and being taken
The repeating chorus of your voice
singing out my name.
An encore dedicated
to the muss of sheets,
to desire itself, to the tangle of it all.