Soft
Sweet flesh,
summer scented longing.
Kiwi in a bowl.

Slash of steel,
slices green,
welcome ocean of respite,
the sight,
of splendid sea like skin.

Fingers trace,
tender, practised.
Burst of citrus,
tropical tang against tongue
that sucks fingers clean.

More pleasure
as they find again
little bumps of black seed.
Clinging, lover like,
an intimacy
arousing, envy.

Only fruit
can be so flawless.
How unromantic
to eat them now?
And what a dreadful waste.

The doorbell sounds.
And at once,
ceramic bowl of emerald treasure
is abandoned.
Forgotten as if,
it never even was.

And with it,
certain mid morning rhetoric.
Sunshine
on sunday mornings,
always inspire
the oddest ever sentiments
in me.

Tomorrow I know,
will be glorious-
a cherry blossom morning.
When only tonight,
the darkness spills,
like ink,
across the skies.

So that memories of then,
when
we reached for each other,
Your fingers brushing away sleep,
lips awakening desire,
waltz across the shadows
that stir awake,
in the delicious sweep
of sleep

Those ardent whispers,
fevered, urgent,
lie tangled inside,
safe within my breast.
While the rest of me
breathes in,
the scent of you,
from off my pillow.

When the lights fade,
I know,
I will find more verse -
To sing over and over,
in a stubborn sort of longing
until you
are with me again.

And I could live this way,
in deep belief,
forever.
Letting the fires of love
warm me,
before I let their flames
consume,
my muted tempesteous world.