She is a different person during love-making than she is
during the everyday world, the thrust of the knife causing her to change, a Heckle-Jeckel
I do not recognize as one turns into the other beneath me or above me as I ride
her or she rides me, more than just the moans and groans, the squeak of the bed
springs, her face transformed into someone else, flushed with blood, especially
during the build up when I pump her up the way I might a balloon, each thrust
pushed into her fabric,, risking that point when it all will explode, this desire
we need to work it all out, pushing and shoving, risking everything on the
outcome, how much will it take to make her burst, to alter her, to recreate her
into that other people who is not this being I know when I engage her elsewhere,
the push and shove, the in and out, magically converting her into someone I don’t
know, someone I ache to know, and I wonder, does she see all this in me as well
as I swell up to fill up the infinite universe that is contained between her
legs, do I change as much as she does, and what do we change into when we do.
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