Thursday, December 8, 2011

Across A Table

I honestly forgot to post a poem yesterday, and as tomorrow is a holiday here in Antigua, I decided to post this today. Hope you like it and feel free to comment.

Across a table,
Strewn with the remnants
Of a late night dinner,
He sat.

With a glass of Port
In one hand
And a lit cigarette
In the other,
He spoke of his philosophy,
Underlining a word or phrase
With the reckless gestures
Of his already occupied hands.

I sat back
As his words
Washed over me.
A word here,
A sentence there would
Recapture the attention
That would slip away
Without my permission.

I interrupted his monologue
About the thesis of
Some long dead theologian
And suggested we move
To the couch, as
I was sure it would be
More comfortable, and
To this, he agreed
In his distracted fashion.

As I curled up
In one corner
Of the plush hand me down,
He sat at the other end
And continued to speak.

I heard nothing
As my mind
Became quite preoccupied
With thoughts
I dared not share with him.

Thoughts of
Removing the cigarette
And the glass of port
From his hands,
Stubbing out the former
And setting the latter
Some distance away.

Thoughts of
Planting butterfly kisses
On his neck,
On his closed eyes,
On his nose,
Then on his mouth.

Thoughts of
His mouth.
I know what it looked like,
But I yearned to be
Well versed on how
It felt and tasted.
Would my tongue
Find a delightful playground
In the cavern that is
His mouth.

As my eyes became heavy,
They slipped down his body,
And I fantasized
Licking my way down his body,
Making pit stops
At his nipples,
Nipping at each,
Not wanting either
To be jealous
Of the attention
I was sure to give the other.

My eyes
At last closed shut
And I imagined
His manhood at attention,
Filling me with anticipation,
Then satisfaction,
Then bringing me to
The most pleasant release.

I moaned.

It was only when
He shook me lightly
That I realized
That I had nodded off,
That I had moaned out loud
And not any moan,
But one that was heavy
With arousal.

I apologized.
I gave a lame excuse.
I told him it was late
And that we should
Call it a night.
At the door,
I told him goodnight.

Without words,
He leaned in
And softly kissed me.
It grew in intensity
Until we were left
I looked into his eyes,
And they mirrored
The passion I felt.

Without words,
Without conversation,
Without unnecessary rhetoric,
I pulled him back in,
And with the closing of the door,
My fantasy became a reality.

1 comment:

Buddah Moskowitz said...

Mamma mia! This was wonderful, fun and torturous! Deliciously so.