The curves that could **** a man
Aren't at her hips
But dance around her lips
As words that serve neither to stroke nor strangle the silence that tangles inside your grip, but sings and breathes beneath wings of wit from
Those casually crafted curves
Weaving a wind into a wave
Never tumbleweeding out
But either darting
Or floating
To and through you
As an inner voice would
Had you not muffled it with music
And reduced it to one or two loose lipped quips and semantic antics
Curves, warm with form and with friction
Neither liquid or gas in state
With no mass but with weight
They're past but don't pass away
They lay aloft, lingering in the light they were given unto
Or, did they bring the light to you?
Oh yes.
Sultry sounds of synchronizing synapses
Seep and slide deep inside, into the spaces
That two souls so similar, long have sat
Seemingly separate from the infinite vastness
Telepathic, though she doesn't act it.
Hourglass figure, go figure
The hourglass smashes
Or remains undetected, in those seconds
The curves that could **** a man
Form the words that could resurrect him.
