The Purring was Instinctual

You looked at me and the room lost its hold.

Arose your face and mine, stopped in motion,

two Cheshire cats having drunk potions.

The backdrop ricocheting and in that little span of time

between thoughts with no rush, taking in so much,

my hands almost lifted to touch your limbs

as if I had done it a thousand times before

though never had we stood that close.

You saw me with no coat,

couldn't pose, couldn't joke,

but so relaxed that laughs flew up my throat,

too fast to even choke.

Waterfalls. I don't float.

On a boat with no stroke.

Standing before the shoot of a heavy pan flute,

I was soaked and swaddled dry by each note that you spoke.

Each word broke the smoke into a thousand stars

picturing you like a frame.

A window seat, and all I could feel was orange, yellow, pink,

belly-up on a clouded floor. Aroused and glowing

in a house of ceder behind windows and a chimney heater.

Deep in a warm pocket,

bottomless and always full.

Mary Poppins. Bottle rockets.

Tanks slowly releasing fuel.

I could've laid in you like blankets,

passed out in leaves like Fall.

Claws withdrawing in their sockets,

but a lion makes you earn her paw.

It's too bad you never called and got it.

The purring was instinctual.