No place for roleplay in this
illumined shrine of sanctified
skin and porcelain
where the most literal of lovers
whelm in the stainless steel
hot spring's silver stream
where the smoke screen of clothing
clashes with the steam cloud
rising like ironic bread
in Eden's kitchen
where a woman turns around
wrings and whips her satin
slope of hair around a shoulder
leaving to her man ideas
and a bar of soap that slithers
effortlessly in his palm
like a melted deck of cards
where a bubbled corner
is embedded in the small of her back
elevated from the tailbone
to the neck and lowered like the zipper
of the dress he parted not so long ago
where a jolt of urgency
accelerates an exercise in
the ski of soap around the junction
of the hips and outer buttocks
and a segue silently approved
by her arms hoisted to attend
to hair thought to be already
washed and conditioned
where the soap is shared by
both hands on the scaling of
her sudded sternum
presaging an unseen demand
from the beacons of progression
swelling in the wet heat
where a hand of soap and
hand of slide verifies the demand
of hands on her beaded breasts
where he answers her swell
with his stiffness in the final feel
of mystery before a soft shift of
arms approximates a plea
for a frontal rinse
where hands return to nipple
crowned chest sparking the advent
of eye contact all the while
where his fondle intensifies
in proportion to the eyes closed
in anticipation of their saturated mouths'
magnetic duet
where saliva and the cooling water mix
on their cameos of tongues slipping
through their lips in the midst of the mist
and where their towels hang in
a forgotten heap while he takes her
dripping body in his arms and
carries her to where the roleplay
will have to wait after all