some things take time,
experience,
100 bottles of wine,
lovers of all kinds.
some things may never hit you just right,
bittersweet melodies,
beautiful in its own light,
perhaps at its best past midnight.
but you are not an acquired taste
and these may suffice, for some,
but passion...
it will never ease their long nights,
bashful whispers leaving so much to entice.
silken skin aching,
your hand on the back of my neck,
fingers trace that which they fear breaking,
delicacies of flesh we never have forsaken.
slipping into a dance,
you'd think we'd known it our entire lives,
your body and mine, spinning into a trance,
in step, in motion, thrilling me with just a glance.
kisses on my forehead,
4am, and i'm still in his bed.
he loves that i'm well read,
"oh honey its not like we're dead."
but he is not an acquired taste
they will never know our craving,
for the life of each other,
and even if we're both caving,
no one here needs saving.