I love to watch the tilt of your tender-tipped fingers
cupping the teacup's rounded heat,
the way you would gently cup my breasts,
your hands coiled lovingly around their warmth.
The roil of boiling water, the fluid swirl
of aromatic amber flowing over delicate flowers
as spiralling steam scents the room sensual,
rose-redolent and perfumed with jasmine flowers.
Lustrous light turns the day liquid: our private gilded hour.
Lemon sunlight slivers sharpen our eyes to each other.
Your fingers move with practiced, deft fluidity,
absently caressing the chintzy china;
the air heavy with heady scents of the orient,
a tingling-brisk kiss of bergamot upon your lips.
I watch you lingering, filtering the fragrant leaves,
your fingers frisking the fragile porcelain,
florid and swelling with heat;
your lips dipping to sip sugared gold.