Smouldering shapes, you serve with prowess,
Digesting the vision, you slowly undress.
Is it wrong to suspend that image right there,
And not progress to passion and dares?
Your hair drifts softly, perfection and grace,
Chaotic blood courses, with familiar pace.
Eyes closed, your fingers tease skin,
Safe inner warmth, the urges they spin.
Climactic and galactic, a passive anaphylaxis,
Contorted and undistorted, curves and ae fond kiss.
The feast of souls, dictates and commands,
Our hearts reduce speed, then calm in our hands.
My foot rests, against your warm calf,
Tentative lovers, and reformed Falstaffs.
Surrendered we lie, submission on cue,
Burning of fears and walls overdue.
I lie there and stare at you drifting away,
Companioned hot nights to solo cold days,
The stave in my heart constructed from passion,
Colour now fills the void that was ashen.
(copyright 2019) Pedro Bat Poet