Spring Valley
Sitting at glen’s edge,
pining the loss of summer
and idyllic rendezvous -
the noticeable disappearance
of luscious granny smiths
we cut in halves
and passionately rubbed
between a quartet
of burning thighs
to chill the desire -
after the writhing ceased.
Perhaps we spoke in similes,
debating the darker part of dawn -
the soft, highlighted slices
of your auburn hair
reflecting the sun's
secret midday voyeurism -
wispy strands of woven silk
complimenting the texture
and hue of imported burgundy wines
erotically sipped,
tasted
and unintentionally
spilled?
Or maybe,
we didn’t speak at all -
perhaps our mouths
were silently engaged in activities
devoid of eating and speaking -
and the perspiration exchanged
was more essential than
simplistic bands
of knuckled gold;
wet and wanting
an invitation
to the honey-scented
catacombs of a private
teardrop.
The summer when
two ambitious hearts beat loudly
and became whole;
we coupled and silently
brushed our eyelashes against
a lost era.
A time when innocence
was a forgotten commodity -
and sincere happenstance
could not define the validity
of unconditional love;
whereas our
sodden lips remembered
and conditionally
did.
Dedicated to and written
for my sweetheart -Margaret.
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