ON THE MORN

Mature lovers at breakfast

THE MORN, THE MORROW

 

(Nice to read while hearing the Shirelles' "Will You Still Love Me, Tomorrow?", or or Bach's "Air On The G-string.")

 

You are my first thoughts upon stirring from my dream;

my dream continues, kissing into your space, your breasts, your face,

knowing the reality of your embrace,  inhaling the night's scents

lingering over mutual vapors of natural, unbridled passion.

 

The lips that moaned now sip the steam from latte.

The fire from sapphire eyes still gleams in satisfaction

of being eagerly, willingly conquered in your Nymph's release;

a throbbing, pulsing, damp flower of desire. Ultimate pleasures. 

 

Last night adds lovely definition to this morning, to the whole day.

The smell and crunch of  buttery toast: the rustle of scented silks.

Cupfuls of warm, savory black dew: the soft, lissome body of you.

Cinnamon, butter, sweet honey:  Cinnabar, Patchouli, Raptured. 

 

I restrain myself 'til when again love naturally flows,

when we join again, again, on the morrow.

 

 

 

((Do I need to say that I think of you a lot !?))