Wordsmoker

The line seems interminable. For a long time its been just this one fleeting image of you which I have become so obsessed with, that as Jackson says “… it was never clear, how far or near, the gates to my citadel lay; though I keep a watch on the distance, heaven is no closer than it was yesterday”.

Suddenly, the line lurches forward and in the rush toward you, I see the others, diving one after the other, as in formation, to know your sweet embrace, to know a moment of unitive bliss, to look upon the lucid glory seen in your eyes, beyond what was real to the core of comprehension.

Through the crush of bodies I see the change coming up.

Everyone goes through the doors of opportunity at least once, though usually it is many times before we know we are going.

This time I know. I’m changing partners because it is my turn.

Everyone must do it at least once, though usually many times before we know we are doing it.

I know.

The rules of rotation require it. No one has a choice as far as the dance goes. If you step on the dance floor (which we are all more or less eager to do), you must make those steps by the accepted form, otherwise it isn’t a dance at all, but a chaotic cacophony of steamy flesh.

I’m reaching to you. I’ve never thought that you may reach back.

You’re reaching.

Read Ashford’s Bio here and see his MySpace page here, baby.