Monday, May 18, 2015


Do they feel soft,

These quivering moist pink lips

That glisten in the dim light?

Are they as hot as they seem,

Flame-like, impatient,

But pressed tight like a treasure chest

I ache to open; but need no pirate’s map

To see what lies inside,

Just the courage to reach in and take it,

Hoping the theft will go undetected

Or better, accepted,

Making me sway as if still lost at sea

Unable to keep the tides from rising

And drowning me in their salty scent.

I drink nothing and still I feel drunk,

A staggering mass of unintended consequences

Rocking up and down and sideways

Until I cease to know which was is which

Or which way I intended to go in the first place,

Keeping sane only by wishing for

That which I can not have,

The imponderable mysteries of life:

Do they feel soft?

What if I touch them?

Will they even be enough?

Can I stop once I start?

How many times can I sink

Before I finally drown,

In this sea of potential bliss,

This potent mix,

This soft embrace?

Or have I already drowned

And do not know it?



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