Savoring Desire

She wound her way like ivy in-between thoughts,
curling cozily, permanently, vertically.
She is flesh, simple flesh, and I
found her skin effortlessly.
Then, closing my eyes, I recalled how
through finger tips
I tasted her palms and wrists.

Have you fingered prayer beads, chanting?

Have you ever intoned long and slow?
Have you knelt in silence, unceasing?

Repetition mesmerizes, enchants, unfolds…

That is what touching her skin did to me.
That is why I could not release her memory,
or forget her face, as if I were under
the spell of some sensual grace.

That which held her pulse

freed my own in some strange way.
I could feel it rising from a soft field,
energies fusing beyond sight,
ghosts rising from the yesternight.

There was no hurry in this prelude of touch;

anticipation, first kiss, latent eagerness,
desire sparingly dispensed
like the final drops from a desert fount.

That  night, like ivy, rose slowly,

curling cozily, perhaps permanently,
as I began to unwrap her name.

end/michael bogar