three

I write these stupid little poems for him... I fold them up and drop them on his desk and walk away without saying anything at all. He loves them and I love writing them for him...

I
this tiny part of me
waits with ache for your hands
your lips, your tongue

this small core of pink
presses forward to find the heat of you
flushes dark, growing stronger
by the kiss

this hidden love for you pulses
catching and holding my breath
waiting for release.

II
I want to wake with you
and sketch the story of us
on the soft skin of your belly,
drawing lines between kisses with
my tongue, my hair painting this
scene on your chest as I move.
I want the rain to start
soft around us. I want you to
build my thunder slow.
I want to ride out this storm
sweet in your arms
I want to sleep again to the sound
of the wind, curling around you
like a secret.

III
This carefully concealed love
has stripped me of my senses,
pushed me naked
all the way to need.
Needing you grows solid, pulses
stronger than a heartbeat.
It moves me beyond possibility
beyond sanity and reason
beyond our sensible agreements.
I just want you.
I don't want to breathe until
you kiss me, don't want to sleep
without touching you, don't want
to wake to the days without you.