Peeca Mark

after-sex poetry...
Sex.
The bitter container of thoughts and expressions;
actions and corrections
which you've never thought about before.

Another world.

Inside this world
eyes turn into hands.
And every place I want to see
my hand has already seized.

Inside this world
hands turn into noses.

Her smell is as euphoric as a newborn
fresh out the womb
using their nose for the first time in a flower shop.
It reminds me of those times we're together;
in bed
on the couch
on the sidewalk
in the middle of silence.
It reminds me of the emotions I feel when i'm around her and the ones
generated toward me.

I smell her scent as if it were some kind of food.
I normally don't have access to it, so when presented with this splendid dinner, I gorge
myself to makeup for times past and when I'm starving in the future.
I save as much of the leftovers as i can, in this harvest, anxious
for the winter soon to come, whatever the left overs may be.
I eat up as much of her scent as I can
till i can't eat anymore, despite my attempts
because the glands in my nose and memory are bursting from the seams
unable to hold anymore additional weight.
And force me back to experiencing her sensually:
with my hands, my eyes, my nose, my everything.