I haven't been inhaled
in long enough to know that it comes around least expected and often ill-timed
arms broad chest tight wrap against all of me
I am a child astride his lap
I am a woman near his mouth
In the silence of the blue hour sitting on a park bench, a fleet thought How nice it would be to kiss them
I shake my head, shake the thought out, shake the moment free of desire.
His voice is the low rumble of second generation californian: quiet, secure, warm; Would it be okay if we kissed? I am out of my reverie and our lips, tongues, mouths silence our words and our nocturnal yearnings pull desire like putty stretching it looping it back on itself.
My body knows how to be touched, especially after a draught. Now, I am pulling scent from my skin, the nearness of the encounter is lingering on my t-shirt, in my hair.
In the exchange, the choice of silence for secrets, we chose silence.
All of this leaves me very shaky, hungry, lonely for touch. I find honey when searching for gold and I am satisfied.
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