Ardor is ard(ours).
Come, I shall draw a bath for you.
Two glasses of Malbec.
Close your eyes and speak the words you hear.
I wish to take diction.
Victorian modernity mentality bound, hound.
Smile creeping in small doses.
Your eyes become 30 years younger.
You speak words softly.
Steadily.
Slowly
But, only at first.
My pen’s scratch against the paper changes. Surface tension of woven papyrus shifting with
Variations in the
coarseness of the grain.
The way my scrawls sound is how you felt when you wore your wool sweater against your bare skin.
White sox lay discarded in the corner.
Shea and lavender scents.
My body quickens at the gravity you begin using, speaking ecstatic poetry.
Body rush. Pert and tightening
to hear you speak in wild abandon, surrendering.
