I never tire of dancing my fingers
along your collarbone
(as if I had not done so a thousand times before;
& will a thousand times to come).
It remains to me a delightful mystery of perfection
Which grounds me in its contemplation.
Soft skin, dappled, with golden curls
Covering bones firm; gently curved:
Clear yet somehow secretive.
I feel the gentle pulsing of heart-beat-ting
(as I feel my own heart:
out of time, out of breath)
Breathing in the scent of you
Your skin, the moment, the absolute solidity of
me, being there, in the scent, the moment, the skin-on-skin, the desire, the grinding bones as I pull you close
(closer than close)
And so, each night,
As we make our love anew
I trace the lines of you
(as you of me)
And am renewed.