A single breath releases from her and
The sunlight pierces holes through the curtains.
Our Sunday sheets stick and the sweet smell of
Soft sweat grows the closer we get closer.
Her touch tingles and her taste mingles
In mirth and merry moments of me and
her and memories past, future and present.
If my heart could only be my lips…
“Tell me pretty passionate lies” she cries
and I do the best I can to oblige:
I surmise posit and propel pleasant
Platitudes and position my hands e-
ver so slightly that our thoughts grow mighty.
Our thoughts grow big, bold, too right to scold
and the quiet hour quickly gets grand.
In the most euphoric pause.
From Heaven’s Sunday sermons we descend
back to the soft silk sheets and, once more, in-
dulge in our retreat without defeat.
And then breakfast.