Surrounded by the softness, revealed in your repose,
That contradict the angles of your form.
My fingers seek those sensuous zones;
These hollows hold the heat of you, the heart of you; the you of you.
It’s 3 am, Sunday morning. I’m poised upon the brink.
Do I fall? And if I fall, will you be falling too?
I listen to your purring; soporific snores.
That wake a yearning deep inside and leave me wanting more.
And as I drop I taste the tang of iodine,
Of salt soaked skin
And the essence of the the winter river,
Caught in the curls of your hair.