And In Words, She Blooms

Her curves are rinsing their endless constellation beneath hot rainfalls of white shower steam, which is why I stand quiet, sinfully agape even and willfully paralyzed by an ambrosia of slender echoes. A drunken prize fighter, dazed by countless punches I spin from the twirling parasol of her sexy, fitted hips-- when finally, as the winds of lust muffle in her bath towel, she chuckles her red-petal lips contour the silent words.. “I love you” I'm hit by the crack of thunder that that stops everything dizzied by the just-popped blossom that steals all the newborn light, the kind that even moribund butterflies take drifting detours to see before their wings lose all starlit desires to fly above the soil. Here.. somehow.. in the question mark of my good fortune she stands like a bouquet of lightning, catching, and natural. Her light tips over a glass of my words, spilling incoherence everywhere my senses scramble to pick up scattered bits of tongue-tied sweet talk but I admit defeat, I admit hilarious defeat. I turn ten shades of red, still-- after six years of marriage I am the thorn-- she is the rose-- and together we make love. August 23, 2016