Los Besos (The Kisses)

A simple thing of beauty,
gentle lips. So gentle.
Supple and pink, waiting
in parted, charming innocence.

Parting more and calling
in silent want, beckoning in
another dawn for the luscious
night to begin. Anew. Afresh.

Salt to taste, tongues dripping
in salivary haste, teasing
and twisting, in celebration
of the exotic recipe to come.

The sound. Oh! The sound.
Of that breath drawn in.
So near and so far amiss.
Continuous, invited, demanded.

Restless hands writhe
on familiar ground, reactions
uncanny, lost and alone.
Murmurs of incoherent bliss.

Imagination grinds to a halt
by force of senses overwhelmed
to think anymore. Rising breath
surrendering to burning whims.

Exhaustion far, but distance
wins. Inanimate responses tire
magical zest, rising desires burn
silently awaiting, in blessed turn.