The Women

The Women
My head
pounds, begging:
Kiss her.
Kiss her.
A whisper. Unlit thought.
Half-grown wonder.
She blinks.
I stare.
Slowly, I lean toward her…
The woman. . . . . .

Half-closed eyes.
Dark,
Half-open lips.
Inside, heavy and knowing
Tongue.
Dark hair resting
on a breast.
Caressing her
with each movement.

. . . . .

To touch her.
To lift my hand
and watch it touch her.
To slide her shirt
off her shoulder,
see her watch it
without modesty or humility.
Dark woman.
Woman with unrepentant past.
Cool woman. Gentle woman.
Whisper. Whisper.
And the shirt is gone.
Then, dark nipples.
Nipples that catch
in the folds of the lips.
The folds of a pucker.
Soft.

. . . . .

Closer I lean.
She knows what I want
to do. She
knows I’m
inching closer.
She sees.
She knows.

. . . . .

The hands.
Twenty fingertips
touching in symmetry.
Nails sliding down,
digging into sensitive
palm-flesh.
Fingertips searching
over muscled skin
for hardened nipples
and the small of the back.

. . . . .

Searching her eyes
for rejection.
Closer.
Eyes darting
over her face.
Closer.
Too close to stop now.

. . . . .

Her stomach.
Flat. Dark. Hard.
Dark woman.
Stretched out on cool sheets.
Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall.
Hips dancing
from a finger’s kiss.
Dark legs, so strong,
so urgent
to press themselves
into the bed.
Strong fingers imprisoned
in cool sheets.
Straining into the air.

. . . . .

Darkness.
Too close to even see.
The natural close of eyes.
But, not before I saw
her lips
rise and bend and smile.
. . . . .

Soft moisture. Deep caress.
Tension of stomach
and thighs.
Arch. Scream. Clench. Spread. Shatter.

. . . . .

Our lips touched.
Soft. Soft.
Whisper.
Hunger.