Is there any limit to those who keep her company, by day or night, rolling around in wrinkled bedsheets, seeking to do what she likes best or what she might like to do next, the parade of those who stumble, love-drunk through her otherwise locked doors, married or unmarried, none certain what exactly to expect, perhaps even shocked at what transpires when they leave.
What is the limit, if there is one, to the idea of joy, not
just the physical presence (though that is amazing in itself), but the feel of
what we feel when we come too near, the promise of something so utterly intense
we’re never certain we can survive it, yet are drawn to it – moth to the flame—to
test our mettle, and learn the ropes even if it means being tied to her bedposts,
to let her have her way.
Is there a limit to her joy? Does this come with a number on
it? Or is the whole universe hers to explore, she needing to go as far as she
can so she can learn what is enough, and how can anyone keep up with that,
clinging to the pillows as she stretches it all out and asks, “Are you coming
yet?”
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