Today, my longing is like the afternoon
that smoldered with a scent of invisible
apple log fires, or perhaps
like the reminiscence of a poem
by which I must have felt like snuggling
instead of writing. My skin glows
with a subliminal sunset of words
flavoured of cinnamon and nutmeg
I vaguely wonder why, before I spread
a pool of honey, or maybe of molten languor
at the foot of a mountain of untold desires
much too crisp to climb. I let my hand
as if it were another poet’s hand
glide this whole voluptuousness
full of spices and eminence, along
one more strophe as sinuous as a hunger
for something ready and warm, bubbling
in a bowl offered at the threshold of arrival
after a very long detour.
But the hand stops – and so does that of the other poet
- at the first spoonful of nightfall
and that is when the lips take over.
I swallow a whispered echo
and the remnants spill, slowly, in a sigh.
From my nipple I wipe the last drop
left by this longing. I fall asleep
naked, still snuggling by the poem. And I dream
of wanting more.
