She closed her legs
She crossed her legs and kept all that was mystery and marvel in the womb of her being. She made the choice to harness the essence and smoldering of her feminine spirit intact. Untouched. A glorious state of becoming ensued as her softened and broken body finally closed the gates to her sacredness.
She closed her legs and became.
She became herself in the echos of her skin sliding on her empty bed, the sheets dripping lazily to the side to welcome her. She became curious and ravenous of all the whispers her body hushed upon her hips when the only hands were that of her own. She became solemn in the weeping when the traumas filtered one by one down the birth canal to her becoming. She became joyous in the cleansing of the walls where wreckage once lived filled with empty vaults of ashen spirits. She became love and love became her in the solitude of her body with closed legs. With closed legs.
When her heart had lifted in unison with others. When her soul merged with the dark spots of the purely potential. When her spirit made up stories of how they loved her. When her voice cracked into splinters trying to be heard.
When she had had enough. She stopped. Just stopped.
The feeble attempts to corner her body. To slip in with soiled hands. To make a mockery of her holy feminine. To master the art of foolery when all that was wanted. All that seemed probable was the one night. The one week. The one month. Where days spilled into nothingness and they simply foraged her skin to release their empty words and vibrations that ripped through her soul. Where their liquid became putrid venom to dim her essence.
She was waiting with closed legs. Waiting to be penetrated of soul. Of spirit. Of nourishing heart. The secretive pockets of her glory as feminine spirit. As wild woman. She was waiting to feel her body vibrate from connection and intimate coos when the the moon tilted into the mountains. When stars danced on table tops and safety cocooned her flesh. Waiting to be ravaged with kindness and patience and delightful giggles.
Until the day would come when one could show up in regal soulfulness and grounded masculinity, she would sit on the hill above her abode with her legs closed, nature courting her to her becoming. She would renew her vows with her divinity and claim love within the inside flesh of her succulent walls. She would bathe in the nectar of raging rivers and hold tight the hips to her own liking.
It was clear that within her closed legs she held power. Power of silence and stillness. Power of mystical wisdom and unbridled strength. Her body was her own sovereign sanctuary with filmy skins of every bouncy cloud above her. She couldn't bear to part with her skin, to open her decadent legs and unzip her flesh for anyone less than seductive of wholeness. One who would thread his way into her mouth with truth and honor. With valiant dignity of spirit so full.
She reclaimed her body. She closed her legs. She smiled at the parting skies.
And danced alone because she knew that she didn't need to wait.
He was waiting in the shadows of her becoming...