Silver mists drape the oaks
in a gauzy morning wrapper.
The sun peeks between the folds.
Mourning doves coo seductive approval.
My eyes open into yours.
Heat, a moist blanket unfolding, settles over me,
weights my limbs with a peaceful presence
that could so easily be stirred to passion.
And stir you do, one finger, dipping in, languid circles.
My gaze takes a slow journey to your lips,
watching you lick and suckle,
your eyelids drifting down to savor,
like a chef over a delicate sauce,
a wicked grin as you invite me to taste.
I catch the scent and flavor of my own desire,
wriggling closer, inviting your pleasure.
You withdraw leaving me with
your unswayable smile,
the one that promises,
that despite a bit of simmering,
waiting will be worth it.
On the back burner
dreams and fantasies bubble together
blending, melding, merging
creating something bolder,
more developed, exotic.
Heat clings as the sun sinks
behind blue mountains
and you rise ready above me.
This moment has sizzled in us all day.
A feast awaits.
We smile together at the brink, knowing.
This won’t be polite.
This won’t be civilized
This won’t be proper
It will be worth the wait.
Visit the other passengers on the Monday Poetry Train Revisited.