I.

In the hour of not-quite blue

your long, lean, lithe form,

your back,

finally at rest,

next to me.

My hand finds

the soft, silent curve,

the indent of your waist,

and slides

gracefully

seeking its place

wrapped round your masculine pride

like an infant’s grasp

holding on

because

II.

You are not a guardian angel

but you protect me:

Read and leave comments (0)