To the city
my hair carried you
to the city
the sultry fragrance of
the olive oil we
shared on our bodies
salt tang of your sweat
the red dirt of the farm in your skin
with a faint trace of tomato vine
My hair carried you
to the city
recording the journey
trekked across your chest and further
when you led me by the hand
tangled with my lips and tongue
as I tasted and teased you
while testing my own arousal
My hair carried you
to the city
I wrapped my face inhaling you
so deeply that I would remember
under the noise and chaos
how to remain soft and embracing
of your exploratory penetrations
nailing my body to the floor
My hair carried you
to the city
Penumbra
I am golden
My spirit goes sunlight walking
My heart ranges the savannah
Of your loving
Sweat prowls in whispers down my back
I am golden
My skin limned with morning light
My hair sleepy with feral nights
Of your loving
Our sounds lioning into the dark
I am golden
My eyes horizonless watching you
My body willows to the touch
Of your loving
We are the saffron butter moon rising
I am golden
Of your loving
Sunday Times
My fingertips intrepidly explore the
Delicate whorls of fine hair
Around the enticing centrifuge of your belly
Occasionally creeping north
To map out a taut nipple
All in secret under your shirt
While you read the New York Sunday Times
You hold me close
Absentmindedly and whole sensationed
Feeding your subliminal hunger
Through my tattoo at the base of my spine
Pressing and rubbing my skin
Into your desires
While you read the New York Sunday Times
It becomes too much distraction
Of a sudden you push my hand away
Concentrating your all on deathly depressive
Destructions and editorials on ethics
Racism, corruption, greed, and
Perhaps the odd sentence here and there about
Happiness
While you read the New York Sunday Times
I freeze my erotic instincts
Suspending operations and journeys
Willing even my wildish thoughts to a standstill
As seconds and minutes tick away
While you deepen your updates of the world’s sins
Sighing and fatigued by it all as surreptitiously
Your hand finds its way once again
To my tattoo under the covers
While you read the New York Sunday Times
Slowly carefully not to interrupt
The reported demise of the earth and all her inhabitants
My fingers retrace their steps and my elbow
Grazes the highlands of your shorts
Inspiring a digital holiday south to warmer climes
While your breathing slows and heartbeat rises and
The longing urgency of your tattoo upon mine presses harder
As you abandon the New York Sunday Times
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