her silhouette

ben goertzel





Somehow on.

Baby, baby.

Nohow on.

Proceeding forwards, backwards, sideways, 
through imaginary dimensions, 
nine-dimensional stairways, 
transcendent jungles of truth,
sweetly invisible whys whys whys

The thing that always sticks within me is her silhouette

When she leaves the room, it hangs there for a moment, 
retaining her shape 
and an element of her energy, 
a pure electrical field of woman-ness

It asks me this question: 

I open my mouth to give it an answer, and then it disappears

I reach out to touch it, overwhelmed by desire, but where is it 
anyway?

She comes back in again,
all solid and substantial,
warm breathing face, fleshy breasts,
walking thighs, stomach eminently caressable
and engaged in digestion,
brain propagating electric charge internally
leading her to illusions and songs 
and where did the silhouette go?