Come Sunday and here we are.....
Like sepulchral statues we lay
Upon the makeshift bed of our passion
your body reminiscent of fine porcelain
Waiting to be fired by molten heat
My naked thinking heart had room for only one far away...
we will have our seasons to ripened our love
Like swollen fruit on the bough
I whisper to your eager ear...
a nervous question...
and gaze into expectant eyes...
I see my answer.....
License my roving hands
let them go to where your body needs...
For they explore familiar territories
Of soft warm undulating terrain...
...this man...these potters hands..
need little, ask not for much...
but, one simple and loving request...
Let me beloved roll you under my tongue~
Savoring you as my sweetest morsel
And if you should vanish tomorrow
My death would be slow by famine
Take me and imprison me in you, for
You enthrall me and I will never be free
of this wanting and needing...
you formed and now live in me....
your empty vessel of passion...
waiting to be filled...
"Words not needed...Just your presence"
