Untitled #x

I catapult to you
From a tightened spring
Of deep affect
Free; floating
Where soft caresses live
And lips are spongy
Like sponge cake
I could eat you up
And swallow you down
With tea for two

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Yin(s)

The yang in me

dissipated

into a Valium haze

as we wove

a thread from end to end

from yin to yin

With rosé pink lips

With rosé pink lips

In convoluted sentences

You invited yourself home

Devoid of pretenses

Your intentions dawned

As I stirred my Sangria

I gazed into the distance

The pathway clear

You followed me home

With long silken strides

Espresso hair; shaggy

Lips that confide

With rosé pink lips

In lingering soft strokes

Your kisses were crafted

Custom; bespoke

Homecoming

In the spaces between dark and light lays a sensual opaqueness of curves and edges. One leg taut, another flopped lazily to the side. Arms out-stretched, belly soft and round. Eyeballs fluttering beneath eyelids, eyelashes resting like reeds. A stiff cotton sheet is unforgiving, providing neither a sense of safety nor warmth. It wrestles with itself at the end of the bed, aided only by a foot, which momentarily kicks at its desperateness.

Lovely in her dreams, illumination from car headlights scan her length; each time another fool drives past to a place that isn’t here and isn’t important. Be gone fools, but as you go, shine your light, so I may see her illuminated.

At the end of the bed, I am a made only of observational material and what I observe in the disco flashing, opaqueness of our bedroom, calls me closer. She awakes as my fingers skim up a calf and the sensitive crook of her knee. Seeing me through her sleep she reaches out and I resist, instructing that she lie back down and close her eyes.

Letting out breath, her body twitches as my tongue makes its first dip into her folds where I taste her day. Like a kitten I lap softly at the edges, more concerned with my own nourishment than her pleasure. Sweet sounds float down at me; instructing me in their way. I taste the salt from her visit to the beach in the late afternoon. Soon that sea is replaced with another from deep inside. Each wave informs me of her graduating desire. I know now that her dreams are of the past and all of her thoughts, feelings, and sensations are linked directly to the movement of my tongue.

Raising her hips, her body is becoming desperate and I meet that desperation with my own. There is a special place where the tip of my tongue finds a gap to make its home and I concentrate on its slight roughness. My fingers tease the opening that lies beneath and soon they are inside, moving, searching, exploring until I find the rhythm that will take her to where I want her to go.

With her thighs hugging me I swim deeper, and harder, against the current. I want to take her out of her comfort zone to a place where the wave between her legs and over my face sweeps her away in a whirlpool where only pleasure exists. A tsunami of sounds and violent shudders fills the opaqueness and once all is calm I rest my head on her sweet mattered hair and match my breath to hers. It is good to be home.