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.