The mysticism of the moon,
The curvations,
And your ****** contour—
What phases are you in?
What hands do I have,
That I get to play
With beams and shapes,
And spaces and stars?
What bending of finger
Could call me better
Than yours?
What flick of tongue?
What advancing hesitations?
Your caresses, syrupy,
Divine, nightly, have been
Dripping all over me.
What else can I say?*

I'm yours.

© 2015 J.S.P.