i want to prose you on the kitchen table

with my smile melting into your own.

and i want to prose you as colors of the sunset

awash your skin,

preserving our moment in amber.

oh,

and can i prose you in the morning

before we go to work

and sleepiness has

            not quite

fled from our muscles?


i want to prose you while your fingertips

trail from

my cheek

to my hair

to my shoulders,

effortless like water

trickling down the length of me.

i want to prose you

roughly,

            gently,

     quietly,

loudly,

taking our time,

lettings details fill themselves

between the hours.

i want to prose you in the dead of winter,

with the fire crackling like a whispered secret,

and in the slowest molasses days of summer,

when grime and sweat clings to flypaper skin.


i will prose you ‘till we are speechless,

and sleeping tucked between the pages of a masterpiece.