When the air makes love to a woman
It sweeps into her long black hair, setting it free, touching her warm scalp. Releasing the heat. Sweeping down her temples, she carries the wisdom of centuries, the pain the pleasure. Setting her worries to float, dandelion of reservation lift off her eyes . Her eyes shut so tight, she does not have to see. She does not want to.
She chooses to be blind and heightened, when the air envelopes her, smothers her, lifts her, loves her. Her soft neck exposed, and tender to its touch. The tiny hairs uplifted with her rising desire.
Her naked body spins slowly as she lets her self go, the air lifting her arms. She looks victorious, the years of shame and domination slowly evaporating as beads of sweat trickle away.
Her bosom heaving, taking in all she can, breathing fast and slow, making love to her lover, her life giver. She is free, she is god.
Her pleasure obvious, betrayed by her hard nipples. She is uncaring, she is for all the world to see, being made love to. Her stomach lined with labor, of love and suppression. Each scar telling a tale far too rich to fathom. The possibility of life slumbering, waiting to wake. Rising and falling as she takes as much as she can to release her maturity, regain her chaste untarnished soul.
Her gyrating hips that hold in between what can only be desired the most, what can only be the sweetest fragrant nectar. Her moistness, warm and trusting. Vulnerable and bare. Her legs slowly move to an unheard tune, her feet that bare this magnificent creature, this perfection. Arms outstretched, reaching for nothing, seeking nothing. Her lips dry and laughing lifted in an unseeing gaze to the stars.
This being, that gives her self everyday, to constriction, is free. She is not mother, she is not daughter, wife or sister. She is woman. She is free.