Five extremities creep,
daintily, and uncertain
across the sheets --
sliding along
like running scales on a piano
until they stop at those long desired
slender ivory keys
and claim them.
Your thumb plants itself over mine,
and our fingers weave together,
finally.
I'm so touched, you wrote a poem about mwah. Not. I think who it's realllly about......
ReplyDeleteit's good, it's pleasant, I reread it 3 times because the sounds kept calling me back.
You may or may not be right about who this is about. It started as one person (a dream) and ended as another (reality)
ReplyDeleteBut thank you, I'm pleased with it also.