For the Girl

It starts with an old porcelain claw-foot bathtub
the chipped remains of an era-gone-by.
A leftover in the bungalow
where we meet.
Tropical plants and sweet odors
come through the open window
where I coax warm breezes to kiss your flesh.
I urge you into the water with me,
heat and steam opening us.
You slide down into the pearl-drop bubbles
and lean against me
in my arms.
The water is scented with my jasmine.
My scent covers us.
My scent on you.
Mine.
Gentle caresses keep you.
Promise days of creative endeavors
sharing those dripping-from-the-page words
that sustain us
like honey.
Nights of humid, hand-in-hand walks
sweat pouring from us,
cleansing,
sand between our toes...

Mmm...
your toes...
delicious.
I wash them in the purest water,
adorning them
adoring them
licking every inch of sensitive skin
on each foot.
You laugh
tickled.
You sigh
submissive.
You moan.
Sated.

Bunched up blankets beneath us
that will need to be washed in the morning,
while over a breakfast ofcafé con leche and fresh fruit,
we discuss in great length
the poetry I made of your body the night before.