Sensual
Cinnamon Spice Essence
A poem
And with
crimson orchids
burgeoning —
as if to greet us
with its cinnamon
spice essence
through the window sill,
which hides or passion
from the sun,
beaming with her
tempestuous thoughts
till — like a searchlight
with fuschia fingers
illuminating —
she finds us there,
breaking our fast
from this fantasy
and into the reality
of yet another day
which must pass.
And as my fingers rest, entwined in his, sensing his aroma through the rustling of sheets warm with ardorous breath and satiated desire, his head
resting on my hip and his hand, reluctant to leave my leg, tangled around his limbs — does so anyway — reluctance not a deterrent
to him as he slides out of bed, leaving me alone — my once-captive fingers now free to explore, reignite, as I gaze at his strong back and sinewy limbs
because he knows that keeping it to himself — prohibiting that which I expect, desire at this very moment — would make the wait for him
even more explosive than the first, the last and all that has come between.
If you enjoyed this sensual piece, check out another, which is one of my personal favorites:
