Oops, Not Yet, My Dear! (Fibonacci)
it
is
quarter
to midnight
we lay ourselves, on
the bed, her breath demands, willing…
to intertwine, while my naughty right foot tickles hers
the touch of a lonely bourgeois, searching under the
silk sheet of love, with a hope, not
only mine, but her
own silent
gasping
is
at
par
as
my own
wanting grows
and now, night-clubbers
bowing their commitment, homage
to lovers of midnight glory; a total silence
as they pass thru dim-lit corridor, ‘cos we, they know
are surely amongst the many
too excited, in
exploring
what’s life
has
for
us
in
serene
night, but then
the clock strikes midnight
awakens the fragility
of the moon---begging to be in-between, till morn comes
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