Ritual dance.
Afternoon slides in through blinds,
eager warmth seeking some home
to lean into,
as my desire rolls to you, like
some tide rising to your moon.
You perform your ritual dance,
getting-ready for me, your motion
the rhythm of simple desire,
doing simple deeds,
washing hands, making tea,
one dash of makeup, one embrace
held past rhythm's rhyme,
your hand softly lands, then finds
my cock, just beneath fabric.
You flit room to room, some honeybee
dancing between colors, humming,
as I move onto your wheel,
balanced delight, focus of your attention,
drinking this heavy tea of your
enchantment.
I am learning to trust my desire for you.
Standing before your open closet,
you cross arms, reach to your waist,
pulling the coarse weave fabric of
your knit top up and above
the soft warm glow of your torso,
naked above your old jeans.
Your large nipples becoming even
larger from this flash of texture
lifting across tender buds.
I remember dusty bare summer flesh,
leaning back to back, welcome sense
of youth's warm skin.
Framed within the doorway, I wonder
why I don't pounce and devour
you on the spot.
I adore the simple soft ease
of your sexuality, deceptively simple,
sweet mysteries just beyond the
curve of your thighs, my hands
trace a path of happy wonder,
orbit the curves of belly and ass,
slide into wet shadows.
My desire for you is only just begun.
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