Hot

A ceiling fan turns, lazy,
tracing languid circles in the congealed air.
A poster from Thailand hangs on the wall,
its corners becoming tight, humid curls.
A forgotten glass of water stands upright,
the ice long melted,
warm drops of condensate wander down,
collapsing finally onto the nightstand.
But a foot spills the glass to the floor
as we roll over and over,
your flushed face now above me,
framed by damp curls of hair.
My hands move down the glistening of your waist,
to squeeze your hips with each sultry movement.
Your own hands grip the sweat-salted sheets,
knuckles straining white.
A tiny bead falls through the slow air
from the tip of your nose,
and somehow passes between my panting lips,
my tongue emerges to touch the salt of you.
You arch your back, bend down,
bring your full warmth to feel me,
our bodies sweat together.
The weatherman said it would be hot today.
He didn't know the half of it.