Raise your glass for me, to me.
Tell the stars some story about a generous woman
who touches your body in the morning dawn.
She kisses your eyelids tonight, kisses you to sleep, to rest,
before packing the last trinket.
In the morning,
we will lie outstretched on cool cotton whites,
take up the entire bed and take note of the scenes,
the once unknown destinations
to serve as private innuendo.
Take care to tuck into your memory
the swirl of smoke from the cigar in your hand,
the music we made in the windowsill,
my hips meeting yours in the open frame,
my back morphing into the moonlight view across the rooftops.
We’ve had a grand time,
plans played out and sites seen,
the intimacies of naked bodies
entwined night after night,
the reassurance of our existence confirmed with a sweep of an outstretched arm,
my fingertips brushing your ribs, your chest, your shoulder in the darkness.
The last night overseas,
the pace of the parting,
the familiarity with endings,
the last of the lovemaking driven into hazy, dizzy depths.
Locked into the travel itinerary- her climb on top of him, toes to toes, thighs to thighs, the cradling of his manhood in her heat, even as the sun rises.
#for Reticent Mental Property, photo courtesy of the web.