A quick poem.
I begin to formulate, forming a string of thoughts
I put together a sentence I'm fond of.
I ponder, smile and then light the thought on fire.
The string, now more of a fuse, consumed by the flame, shortens
The string burns getting closer to the bomb, my poem, the sweater from which my thought was pulled.
I close my eyes and cover my face expecting a bang.
I flinch and must look utterly insane for there is no bang, no pop, no explosion.
Nothing.
I must have been mistaken, like I am now, as I sit striving to unravel a sweater by only staring.

The way you wrapped your legs around mine
       slowly grinding against me
    moving smoothly through the water
letting the steady motion guide us.

The way my hands wandered
       weightless in the warmth
    blindly making their way
across your wet marble skin.
        
The way your hair was carelessly put up
        in a loose bun that draped, lazy
     heavy to the right
  outlining the tender chisels of your face.

The way my eyes investigated
        tracing the dark lines of your body
     meeting with your eyes for brief moments
  then falling back into the curves of your hips.

I fear all of this is too much,
   for me it's love, for you it's lust.