She is the flesh that burns like hot oil on virgin loins
cooled with breath expelled from parting lips.
Glances,
Encounters,
Slight brushing of limbs, shoulders, belly, thighs.
Feminine,
Like flowers,
Like fields of intoxicating perfumes and her dress that fits in all the right places.
She is poetry.
Angst and Emily Dickinson
though she has not read a verse.
Crawl inside for a while
She is nice and warm.
She is sunshine upon skin and the smell of the ocean wind.
And yet, she is the tide,
Calm, and blue, and clear,
violent, and angry, and destructive
mesmerizing and such that
she follows the moon
for it’s just there to let her be

03/22/2004

Author's Note: Just me doing soul searching, wow been a long time since I have written anything. Hope its not too terrible :P

Posted on 03/23/2004
Copyright © 2023 Britt Zimmerman