Another Page

As the snow falls I settle into
a familiar chair. Feet tucked, warm
fingers flip aged pages, a calling from deep
within to step outside my slow minded
tendencies.

An encircling harmony
houses my inhibitions. Sipping wine,
selecting which lotion, lavender
I think. Satisfying, smooth, long strokes,
massage tired muscles into waking up.
Feeling that sensual pool, pick up,
and slide down. Deviating fingers
divulge hidden secrets, too long
forgotten.

Tingling skin, teased by tracing hearts,
and silent "I love you's "tattooed in
by mimed fingers. From hips to thighs,
I pencil in slow circles, mapping out
every touch, he ever made. Twin digits
press, please, pamper and prepare

a save point, another memory
for a distant cold day. When his memory
perchances a visit, with a sensual kiss,
on another long cold night, when he
is no longer near. Four legs

and a feather cushion are indented
by two willing, wanting bodies
from a slow grind with deep
penetrating strokes, round,
slide.

Held close, in my lovers
arms. We, bare as the trees
outside, twin each leaf's fall
with another stroke, taking
it's place. Playing, groaning

moans of eroticism, encourage
more. Clear window panes witness,
a wet, rough, slow
sweet loving and lingering visions
take root.

Until this day, as I again, lethargically
retake each minxy move, to save
and share. One lost days
encampment, from one lonely chair,
to the turning of another long,
lost page ....