PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Your shoes were so new that, I think, they squeaked

when you pushed them off.  And time, on the clocks,

stopped tangibly.  Beneath your denim cuffs---tattered

boot-flares---your feet, sheathed in midnight blue socks

(explicit, soft and warm) were not entirely concealed.

Inhibitions and pruderies no longer mattered.

You said, "This is ours, and will be only ours, for a while."

Your long, blonde hair seemed to shimmer; to my eager surprise,

new versions of love, of beauty, and of desire were revealed

by your presence.  I saw galaxies of iridescence in your eyes,

and the gentlest of acceptance and invitation in your smile;

and the assurance, that this would be mine to its completeness.

"Soon," you whispered, your tone sultry, "you will feel the surge---

"seven contractions, and then the release of your confected sweetness.

"And in that moment of Love, our souls will converge."

In early adolescence, your knowledge did not fail to amaze

me:  and thus you shared with me the privilege of the Stars' Watch.

(which envious haters, even now, maliciously revile, 

mistaken that their prejudice successfully mocks

this moment:  they are like debris, or a scab, or a crusting) 

You guided my attention to your fragrant (and, yes, flavorful) socks.

You told me, "I wore these for you, and for the dance of your thrusting.

"Initiate them to your intimacy.  They really need to be streaked."

But this, alas, has been only a fantasy---

justified, perhaps, by that history;

but not, in final truth, a reality.

Still, a fictive contemplation worthy of poetry . . . .

Starward

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