with a whisper - poem

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                                                 (((with a whisper)))


                                                          



Silence slides through my fingers…
  dives within fissures and furrows
     softly silence

slips, an oil, an essence…


My eyes do glisten black
in darkness hold reflection
silence slips as do eyes blink…



(((There are little hairs on your flesh.)))
on your throat and skin so soft
they wave with my tongue,
  with a whisper of slightest sound
  a brushing of cores and nuclei…

   They catch the light like still-moving water
              on a river’s surface
         A twinkle and soft invisible,
      slightest hairs on the flesh of your throat…


I remember standing by a window
    you were beside me and spring and stone
water fountains gurgled and bubbled and

        there was that smell

  so crisp of pre-dawn air cascading
     down through lungs and body,
and you were beside me,
  with your arm hooked through mine

      Your shirt had ruffles and a medium texture
that made my skin itch and excite like you were touching me

      even when you were not.


   Quite clearly I recall the curve of your spine,
your back and how it arched so gracefully
to touch your chin like I do to raise your gaze to mine and a breath.



                This is all flowing through my mind now.


    Like fresh biscuits on a cold morning, from the oven,
and you could smell them while outside in the farmyard
in the mud playing with dogs and picking blueberries.

This is you flooding my cells with radiance.  I am breathing deeply now with closed eyes
            I can feel the warmth of the morning sun on my cheeks…


You said your eyes were just brown, and nothing special;
I say I look and in a glance within I do see
   Rich wood of lush forests, the deep brown of an acorn,
the fibres of the underside of a mushroom, and how soft they are…

  Within these orbs must there be a fine array and arrangement,
    mirrors with an inner light source,
                       the age of brick from nineteen oh two
        when dreams were new and
    
the warmest brown in your eyes,
   the most sexual of chocolates
      which melt in a soft trickle between your breasts

over the mole there upon which I place my lips so softly.


   I remember other things.  Fantasies which do caress my skin…

as now I sit here and write; you appear softly
   behind me, your hands and arms slide across my chest to embrace,
     your cheek against mine

        I can feel the moist tickle of your breath in my ear.

A kiss and then you flutter your eyelashes against my cheek,
          and you are gone the next instant, to leave behind an echo of giggles
     and the smell of pancakes.








[2007-07-25 03:53:57]