The Ceiling Fan

Written by: Joe Flach

Like fallen warriors, 
we collapse side by side, 
glistening in the sweaty afterglow.  

Limbs still entangled, 
too exhausted to sing the other’s praise,
we stare at the blades of the bedroom fan 
slowly circling above.

A lone, 
satisfying sigh 
escapes in between your deep, 
cleansing breathes.

Your smile 
reflects in the brass, ball base 
of the rotating fan.
I smile in return,
unable to rescue my gaze 
from the fan 
cooling off our steaming bodies.

Slowly, 
your right hand moves; 
fingers entangle with those on my left.  
I still taste you on my lips.

I silently laugh to myself 
upon the realization that I still have one sock on;
the other dangling on the end of a fan blade.  

The remainder of our clothes 
strewn around the room 
as if the hamper had exploded.  
Your brassiere 
ruined when I removed it 
with my teeth.

Beads of sweat roll down my thigh 
where our legs remain interlocked – 
I love the smooth contrast of your skin 
against my sun dried legs.  

The ever so slight breeze 
created by the fan 
is starting to dry our exposed skin 
as we slowly regain strength.

The circling blades hypnotize.  
The subtle, 
rhythmic hum 
from the fan motor 
mixes with the recent memory 
of the rhythmic dance 
just concluded.  

Your hand, 
now lightly brushing against me, 
is re-energizing my engine.  

Slight,
involuntary movements 
near your finger tips
indicate our dance may not yet be over.

I blink 
to interrupt my transfixed, 
mesmerized relationship 
with the ceiling fan, 
so I can once again 
concentrate on you.

Energy restored – 
as if pumped back into our souls 
by the bedroom fan –
the warriors re-engage 
in battle once again.  

A battle in which 
each warrior wins.