The mornings are when my forlorn mind f l o o d s.
The sea rises; high tide engulfs me.
Gentle caresses, interlocked fingers as we lay in the gentle breeze.
My stomach swoons. I'm weak in my knees.
Sensuous sonnets stream through my mind as I roll around,
lost in my sheets as the day breaks.
"It was Sappho who first called Eros "bittersweet."
A wise woman indeed, that Greek.
I breathe in the memory of your l i p s,
your h i p s,
your s k i n,
your s o u n d s.
I'm in a hammock,
caught between the s e x u a l tension,
and deep r e l a x a t i o n.
The quiet gentle way she says she l o v e s me.
Where is she, my l o s t lover?
I've got a fever; I'm a hot-headed b e l i e v e r.
my mind floats back to her embrace as
the waves lap against o u r feet at the shore...
Her gaze sustains me.
Her nose buried in my neck.
I savor, though I'm no savior.
I am love.
I am patient, like the sand sinking around us.
I adore you, my Beloved, J'adore.
A gorgeous love, i m p o s s i b l e to ignore.
Your natural curls, in the wind they b l o w.
I don't need to explain, because you already k n o w.