The Sensual History
Leather and ozone in silky blackness
barely broken by constellations of light
and rhythmic bass.
Your espresso eyes became golden when you
touch me, pull my hair or
whisper against the shell
of my ear or over my lips.
Falling asleep a thousand
times, by accident. On purpose.
Always in each other’s arms.
Simmering pans in a cramped
plastic kitchen that barely fits us. Dicing
onion and burning garlic. We get distracted
by the warm body near us.
Sandalwood and cool sheets,
our skins red and raw from hours
of hot sand and midsummer sunlight.
To me you are nectarine sunrises,
floral, sweet in crimson and orange.
You read to me as milky afternoon
light flutters through twisted blinds.
Drunk off expensive cocktails,
hand in hand in twinkling Gastown
we stumble through the mist.
Walking into the ocean
together, our senses numb
as the warm foam breaks around
our bare legs.
Long loosely woven affirmations of
true love as the chemicals
in our blood erupt in sonic mandalas.
You are my fundament, grounding me in
miraculous stillness and to me
you are elemental,
electrifying me with laughter and awe.
