I slipped off your dress.
Your dress, with it's cotton pattern
more fit for summer days,
in the nook
of your kitchen.
Your breasts pressed against
the fridge. The fridge where
your organized vegetables
and your suspiciously
chilled
Johnny Walker fits in the feng shui
of water, in the space of life.
And your hips! Oh your hips,
their Pellegrino sloped curves
that just let your dress have that
resistance to fall to gravity. It keeps
us
to exploration by fingers and tactile
remembrance.
That falls us intertwined
That keeps until morning
on the floor
coarsed veins
and flashing smiles
with your scent
attached, in it's accustomed
familiarity.
It keeps me instead,
with lurid breaks
and lips to the small of your back.
I think I'll stay around.
For meals and chat. At least for a bit
and this snow stops whipping around.
I know I'll never forget this.
