how did we meet

On the fly for Pope Bongo , III

I believe it was Rio. The lights and the sounds, the merriment. we passed on the street, both turning to speak and you asked "vous aimez le cafe?" in your formal-esque French and my soft drawl replied, "coffee"? We sat at the cafe animation, speaking of words and lost loves, exchanging addresses promising to stay in touch. We never did. You returned to the states to your wife and child and I to my university and books. And how often have you thought of Rio? As often as I?

wednesday eve

She thought to call...

too late
the deed is done
small hands reached
where his once lay,

she

has come undone
to thoughts…of

a smooth expanse of flesh
firm under the tongue
and taut between the teeth.

I sing to thee in soft soliloquy
of thy sweet caress
of thy skin’s smoothness

and how I had not slept,
but do hunger for a second
chance; could not, your flesh
a distraction too much

yet gone too soon
was thy lover's touch.

She writes love poems.
Even the sadnes, the death,
they are love.

she flutters by

I am deeper than a kiss she thinks
and then something bright and shiny flew by;
she was gone, off in another direction
her hand holding his all the while.

The anchor allowed her this freedom.

She…
was more the type
to take a lover in the truer
sense of the word, dynamics
defined loose and broad;

to cherish, to adore,
give freely, unfettered
and simply of her herself;
open heart, open door
open mind in honesty and
at leisure to explore
these bounds ‘cause

She
was more the type to be
mistress than to be wife
for as a lover she gives
what she expects in return;

friendship and the touch,
the taste of skin; cool hands
on too hot flesh; desire.