Dear Lover,
I watched you sleep beneath the bed ‘cause that is where the sex will lie, with mountain breasts and valley thighs and eyes that burn with stealthless lye, swimming above the clouds, but beneath the broken sky. I teddy-tucked you in the frame and watched you lie within your head with fortress blankets to shield your defenses from virgin kisses that crack the rotten egg of your indifference.
Yet, I’m baking bacon on the currents of your troubled tears, and wishing your eyes were pumpkin pie and greasy pancakes fried beneath an oven sun. I’d bait you on my sexy hook, hidden behind carved flesh and moans. I’d throw bones to the rabid rabbits. And while you slept, I watched you lie, I felt you dancing on my head, swatted every fly-word you threw to dislodge a fragile affection. I whispered to you, “You’re exactly what I deserve: wound-less fingers and cherry tides.”
And when I left you sleeping there, blanket fortress shielding high, I never expected to return tonight to strawberry moons and cherry tides, lips as sweet as sunbeams, saber-toothed eyes. As you held me in your chest-cradle, I heard trouble with your treble; your speaker lacked its rock-toned bass, but I looked at you and sharps and flats perfumed the empty space. You smelled of beaches and winter springs and sea jays when blood birds sing. I whispered to you, “Lover, you have hands like hands and feet like feet and all of you is beautiful.”