Timber

When the day is done and the sun sets is when I miss her most. The moment that the bats come roaming through the woods is when I think about the pound of flesh I wish to take, with both hands cupped and placed together. I wish to take a sip and lay there on my chest with lips to lap up drops that slip down thighs. My limbs are made of timber where the critters creep or so it seems with how my skin begins to weep. My head below a blanket fort, her legs propped up by feet that taste like earth and clay and sage. I take my time here in my mind and trace out music notes there on her pretty pieces. Circles shaded in and lines drawn in between the dots. She sings a subtle song that falls on open ears and this is where I take a moment, taking it all in as cherry blossoms graze my nose. They tickle but a simple love is best. She tastes like rain that trickles down my facial features, she smells of thunderstorms and cupboards boarded up. She feels like second winds and every second I spend in her presence sends me sailing to sea. The waves all rage and crash and thrash, these sheets a polyester prism. I find it comforting to take a break and rest with cheek to lips and then my own begin to kiss the insides of her thighs. Each freckle facing an interrogation, each inch exposed to tongue tied poetry. The journey from these places down to just behind the knee, a hand with fingers flexed and then a curl upward cast a spell. I’m always underneath a perfect moon for speaking magic quietly, the kind that only she can hear. A candle lit and matches flashing in the early hours of the night. An empty coffee cup, a shadow dances in the light. I lift with tips and kiss the hidden spot behind the curtains. Two lips like tulips, sweet and soft. Her breathing rapid, fingers scratching, back arched and waiting for the dawn. I am never good at letting up. I’m never one to quit when muscles ache. I am a thing of burning fire, turning body over, yearning for a plunge. I take a swim and sift my hand through hair to find its place upon the nape. I hold that nape in place and whisper words, whatever comes to mind. A pretty thing, a soft and sweet reprieve.

And then I wake, from dream into reality. I go about my day. I trip too often on my way to pour that cup of coffee, to see the shadow on the wall, to please when begged, to take and take and take.