by Marina St. Clare
(05/18/11)

Feral.
The smell of him
takes from me
domestication,
indoctrination,
trepidation,
clears my mind
of everything
but the base,
the fundamental,
the wild.

Visceral.
The feel of his skin,
of his strength,
of his heat,
arouses urges
more insistent
than desire,
more palpable
than passion,
more exposed
than these
mere words.

Instinctual.
The taste of him
fuels me,
drives me.
Raw physicality
frees me,
releases me.
Complexity
yields
to calm.
Frenzy
embraces
silence.

Primal.
The surge
of his body
and of mine
is at once
intuitive
and
inexplicable.
Uninhibited.

We are
no more,
and no less,
than what we are.

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