Honest Rush


I love your hunger for the honest rush of possible connection and the blatant flirting and banter you employ to secure it.

I won’t deny you the dance.  I don’t need to.

We’re close.  We’re not friends.  We are far beyond lovers.

Your summer is spent on the lake where you claim you learn nothing from fish more adept at avoiding your lines and leads than a forest full of female friends.

Your body is tan where the sun rises and rolls over the dawn, where daylight finds you stalking your prey on the glass of the early morning water.  Your eyes tell tales laced with a hundred sunsets and bon fires-  simple stories of antics far older than time.

I swear the sun-filled days flavor the kisses you deliver, gentled ones exchanged in the darkness when you return to the city,  to me. The conversation doesn’t stop; I talk with you through them, your laughter on my lips, your hips sway with mine.  Hundreds of kisses, they are your ransom. Pay up.

Both hands are thrown in the air,  for a moment.   Your smile says you’re adrift.    Yes, clearly yes, you admit with a shrug.

You are not even sure why you went where you thought you wanted to go.   And sure,  when you arrived in the mountains your guide said they weren’t steep,  yet by nightfall you hurt more than you thought you could feel.

Your aches are deep and exhausting, like a necktie and collar forced out of retirement,  every close of each button says something is off.

I reach my hand to your face and with purposeful intent I lean into the mouth of my traveling man.  Exchanged in a stance of perfunctory yielding, I offer a harmony to sing with your soul. The generosity of my understanding is pure when I ask you to go.

Yes, examine the world, maybe make life with another but philosophy and lessons, are mine to be told.

I don’t want your ring or your villa overlooking the vines.  Your wine cellar might as well sit as empty as sin.

I’ll never ask for more than your truth,  will ask your body to know mine when I’m craving your touch and your bed to be empty when I claim it for lust.

I look into your eyes as you sell me your confusion,

All I see is a man free to follow his original intent.


We can tell ourselves whatever we wish but in the end it only matters what we let ourselves believe. 

#for Reticent Mental Property

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