Nobody makes love any more.
I’m not talking ***.
But the seduction,  the slow dance.
That lingering touch,  a finger across the breast bone.
A kiss on the cheek that whispers of things to come.
Soft lips on your neck ever so lightly.
That make you shiver.

Nobody makes love any more.
Where is that warm hand that softly moves your hair,
To place a kiss on the back of your neck
The kind of kiss that sends tingles down your spine.
Where is hand resting on the small of your back
slipping ever so slowly down to your dearie then back up.
The hand lovingly resting on your stomach as you sleep.


Nobody makes love any more.
Not even in the movies.
There are no lingering looks.
No blankets on the beach.
No stolen kisses in the moonlight.
Gone is the lover that knows you inside and out
up and down, that with one look can turn you inside out.

Nobody makes love any more.
Gone is the lingering embrace.
The one that makes you melt into your lover.
The casual touch of the hair.
Running your hand down their arm to clasp hands.
The touching of finger tips
The total feeling of bliss when two become one.

It’s sad that nobody makes love any more.

The meadow green of your eyes.
Awoke the wild in me
The warm tenor of your voice has embraced my madness
And welcomed my gypsy soul.
Your kiss melted the frozen chamber of my heart.
You have awakened a passion in me I was unaware of,
or unwilling to admit existed.
Where we go from here, I don’ know.
All I know is that I’m forever changed.
With no desire to be the Ice Queen.

If you were mine,
I’d make you sweet ginger tea.
I’d draw you a bath with mint and lavender oil.

If you were mine,
I’d fill the house with the smell of fresh baked bread.
I’d make you fresh butter and strawberry jam.

If you were mine,
I’d tuck you in and read to you until you fell asleep.
But your, not mine.

You belong to her so I watch from afar.
And wish.
You were mine.

By nature, I’m tactual.
Hands on touchy.
I love the feel of silk on skin.
The softness of fur.
The coolness of glass.
When I come across objects of desire
I’m compelled to touch.
To run my hands over them.
Experience their texture.
Feel their warmth.
For me touching is understanding.
If you are my object of desire,
I will touch you,
It’s my nature.

I don’t need a hero.
I’m not looking for someone to save me.
I saved myself long ago.
I don’t mind going solo.
I’m not looking for someone to complete me.
I am whole and complete, alone.
But
I’d like someone to join me in crazy adventures.
I want someone to pull me into a hug.
I’d like someone to dance me around the kitchen.
I want someone to see the beauty in my wild.
I’d like to be kissed on the neck when I least expect it.
That’s what I’d like that’s what I want.
What do you want?

Why do you love me?
It’s not for my wild.
You want me tame domesticated.
So
Why do you love me?
It’s not for my crazy.
You want me sane controlled.
So
Why do you love me?
It’s not for my sensuality.
You want me prime, proper.
So
Tell me.
Why do you love me?