Simple fruit.
The simplest fruit hangs from the tree,
yearning along with gravity toward surrender.
In the kitchen, warm summer lights, dim
as evening approaches; I come barefoot
behind you.
Sweat on my brow, on your bare arms,
exposed, pale brown as you lean toward
shaping evening's meal, the food and your
hands mixed, each some flavor of the other.
My lips, then cheek, find the bare back
of your neck, the finest of hairs on
moist skin. I smell that scent
uniquely yours, and within that first
heartbeat, my waiting comes to home
against your body.
A hundred moments refract time, scattered,
seeded throughout my memory. Years go by
and still new blossoms sprout,
unexpectedly.
Some angel thinks that it is time.
Wet fruit skin lays drying on the counter,
soon ready to be eaten; prayers given.
You press back into me, no words are needed
yet to fill this bowl. Soft curves beneath jeans
seek a familiar outline, and one moment before
my thoughts say, I am sliding, glancing just
across your motion, making new waves.
As when my hands reach beneath your shirt,
slide below your arms and forward, familiar
terrain beneath my palms, then
cup each breast, squeeze so softly,
above and below, as sunset gets warmer
through evening's shadow.
Juices glisten on the skin of your fingers,
old habits guide your hands toward doing what
they already know. This interruption is
simply part of our prayer and meal, waiting.
Neither first nor last, yet welcome.
I love the feel of you, soft flesh taking
my shape, changing my desires, one to another.
There was always enough, even
when we doubted the next dawn.
My tongue leaves a trail, glistening up
from the base of your neck, my hands
yet full and finding nipples to pluck.
You turn, arms swaying within our tide,
finding the next moment's brief pause,
bringing lips to lips, feelings
surrender into touch. Breath passes by.
Let seeds root, within years waiting to be.
I whisper your name, just beneath hearing.
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