The Journey Home

Lips still soft from your kisses;

fresh memories washing by,

breezy and muddled,

scattering fumbled images on rolls of film.

Head slightly sore

but only from those many snatched breaths

taken in severed gasps of passion.

Starved of reliable oxygen

lungs can pump only rhythmical throbs of adrenalin.

My legs are weak,

strangely loose at the knee, oiled and unscrewed.

My skin is smooth where you touched it.

The fragrance of your neck still breathes within my nostrils.

I can feel grains of make-up dusted around my mouth,

a thin layer of paint from your canvas trusted to me.

Your kisses:

so soft  

so taunting

so delicate.

You lost me somewhere in your eyes

and scarcely could I close my own

even to kiss,

such a portrait did you seem.

[2008]