On the edge of your waking dreams
let me trace the sun rise upon your skin
this could be painting-by-numbers
but my only palette are tongue and fingers
I could lie here through hibernation
turning the dit.com sitcom to fade,
your head resting on my rib cage
as long forgotten swallows seeking home
Breakfast crumbs in bed sheet creases
like messages-in-bottles between waves,
let me lisp broken words between your lips
mouths crumble as castle walls
under attack from internet mortar
If Saturday ever comes watch
Wednesday trip into Thursday
and on Friday we’ll play hide and seek:
Behind baggage I pray come and find me
as prey, succumb to your negligee geography
seek the seamstress who laid bare your thighs
Until, the sun rises again…
Very clever wordage here. This is sensual and wry in its humor.
Love the “lisp broken words”—-
j.
Thank you J. I obviously wasn’t wearing my spectacles last night – it’s meant to be ‘dot.com’ not ‘dit.com’. mixing my vowels!
You’ve taken painting by numbers to a most sensual high. I don’t know that any man has ever succumbed to “negligee geography”, but hey, there’s a first time for everything. And what a way to go!