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
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