Coming up for air
She smiled
And pushed aside her
Wild, ruffled hair.
“You know all the spots,” she said,
Between breaths she tried to catch
In the warm, sweet darkness
Of a velvet summer night.

Ah, but you’re mistaken,
I almost said.
Being a gentleman
I did not begin with the
Fact that all spots are different
And on other women
A kiss and a peck here
Might not lead to the shivering
Excitement there

Nor did I pay her a tribute
She well deserved. That on her
The spots were easily flamed
By the mere whisper of lips
Against her hair, or the caress of fingertips
Along a willowy arm.

Nor did I point out the obvious:
That I had not yet found
All the spots which would
Set her afire. As yet
My lips and fingers hadn’t touched
The curving shadow where breast
Met rib
Or the shimmering gel
Of her welcoming thigh.

I had not breathed fire against her shoulder
Or taken her fingers, one by one,
Inside my moistened lips
I had not grazed my hand across her skirt
Or bent low, and with a salacious smile,
Planted a kiss in the Eden
Behind her knee.

Caught in the whirlwind of events
We parted before I could
Become an arsonist.
Mores the pity,
Because in all the years
Since I truly think
We would both have loved
To have been left
In ruins, charred.

Ah, wicked, unforgiving Fate:
To plant so many gardens
And leave so few tended
With the care they all
Deserve.

To rue, as I’ve done,
So many spots;
So little time.

06/03/2011

Posted on 06/03/2011
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