Can't Stop Feeling

you, me, the interweaving movement of things

Artwork by Miriam Dema

Can’t stop feeling you,
me, the interweaving movement of things
ringing, expanding.
An orgasmic opening. How to explain it?
There’s a threshold.
I’m breath and heat and waves of 
electric buzzing, whispering sweet nothings and 
at the brink my forehead wrinkles
in an impulse to think a thought that
doesn’t exist and I release back into my
rhythmic purring,
something shifting. 
Full bodied participation in this
moment. No mind dictating
what’s allowed to happen,
what’s too much pleasure.
For this body? More, always.
A process revealing meaning
like poetry — shapes making words
building bridges. Truth and beauty and
yes, goodness.
Ecstatic observing. Always on a             
                                                  precipice
pressing into unseen edges;
aliveness in feeling.

Feeling:
neither thinking nor figuring nor
any “right thing.”
Trusting what is, alive, embodied as 
holy mystery, divine encounter
is not some grand pinnacle, some extravagant gesture. 
It is.
Awaken to this in each inspired breath,
Do you see? Do you
smell the roses? Do you hear the
beautiful chorus, harmonic? It is no metaphor,
this myth, magick. Witches and bliss.
How do you see the universe?

I am love making love.
Instrument, conductor, artist,
all of this, all wandering spirit
through fascia woven, all kisses and
your fingers and I breathe, O!
My mouths, watering. I can feel from
miles away your fingers in my hair and
I cry and I love you. And
I am the love that I am. The love that
pours from this breath and this pen and
this instrument.

What if mirrors were not here?
I would feel you, depth penetrating
hunger’s dance, touching your magnetic chest.
I am rapt, unraveling the process of
becoming greater than any
thought could have me believe
I am that I am that I am
that, over there, what separates
me from it but an illusory thought?
When I hold my breath lately, I
whoosh into the air. There is no mirror,
so I must be levitating.
All of me up from the depths. All of me
surfacing freedom. Do I die? When I
fly? Maybe that is it. No longer
“me” yet more than ever everything
I dreamed. Right here. All body all
you all me all we all encompassing, 
this moment pervasive. The period at the
end of your sentence. Don’t stop feeling. 
I won’t either. The point is here.

Hi, I’m Faye, welcome. Here, we get a little naughty on the journey to personal empowerment. And we do it through the realm of the erotic. We move from prescriptive to expressive. From obedient to deviant. From copied to embodied. 

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