When, my fingers searching,
I whisper in your ear
it doesn't mean what last night
it meant: the pressure of the skies
demanded a venting; tonight
I need to go it slow.
Slide my fingers along the fur
of your stomach chills,
saliva cooled.
That taut canyon of muscle
channels my tongue to
damper ravines.
Could you lick and kiss me yes--
this is the sensation.
Here is my gasp.
We have become of eachother one;
this fluid is our snowmelt.
By Jason Paul Fox
