this one works, too little, too late

i wanted to write about guns drawn and knives unsheathed...
i wanted to talk solitude and forgiveness...
i wanted to tell you of my travels and hear you speak of yours...
i wanted to see your blood under my nails before we both breathed the holy breath of lovers dancing naked under dimmed interior lights...
i wanted to feel you from every angle...
i wanted my grip to stay firmly planted where it rested...
and i wanted you to turn around and kiss me more than anything...

i wanted to write about starlight and moonshine and sunrises...
but they still aren't in comparison to your gaze like a fallen soldier...
half covered in disheveled sheets, peering up at me like one of the master's stoic models...
you are every bit as epic as i'd hoped...

i wanted to cover my insecurities and scars and every bruise i've ever received...
but you give them names, and make love to each and every flaw, making them feel like the girl who's just felt what loving really means...

i still can't seem to keep green and yellow dry, as the folds upon folds hold up this plane of pride...

sometimes the motion in the ocean is far too much for my sails to take...and i'll collapse under you like the waves when the moon finally goes to sleep at night...

every finger an adventuring muscle, eagerly awaiting it's turn inside...it's turn to seek and find and hide...it's turn to press and squeeze and scratch...

she says the greatest feeling in the world, it seemed, was relief...
i believe it to be release...

i just want you to catch me, and then release...
i just want you to grab me, and never let go...