The Sun’s Vintage

—A pantoum where our lust ripens in the spring sun

A shy lover drops her towel—our naked bodies open to spring sun’s tease.

I gaze on a lush pearl of sweat fleeing the peaceful valley under her breast.

My tongue traces its journey, headwaters my quest, this silky-soft valley it flees.

Her lips sip my salt—a rare vintage—poured from my tiny moon’s firm crest.

I gaze on a lush pearl of sweat fleeing the peaceful valley under her breast.

I breaststroke down her salty, wet body toward a shoreline of dew-licked, glimmering trees.

Her lips sip my salt—a rare vintage—poured from my tiny moon’s firm crest.

Our throats, salt-parched, sun-licked empty seashells from a lost sea.

I breaststroke down her salty, wet body toward a shoreline of dew-licked, glimmering trees.

Our tongues drink deep—slowly—our oases never runs dry, our lust’s final loving conquest.

Our throats, salt-parched, sun-licked empty seashells from a lost sea.

Our tongues discover our salted spring’s nectar, our chorus of taste, our potpourris.

Our tongues drink deep—slowly—our oases never runs dry, our lust’s final loving conquest.

We pressed our flowers—eyes open wide—mouths, tongues, a flavor tempest.

Our tongues discover our salted spring’s nectar, our chorus of taste, our potpourris.

Together, our petals bloom, our sweet scent of our love carried by a warm spring breeze.

We pressed our flowers—eyes open wide—mouths, tongues, a flavor tempest.

Monday office, my body glows by the sun’s burn, I so hate silk’s squeeze.

Together, our petals bloom, our sweet scent of our love carried by a warm spring breeze.

Sun’s pain warms my overflowing oasis, dreams of her taste, her drink, her gentle caress.