I Wish I Were a Few Years Naive

I wish I were a few years naive,
living in disillusionment
wherein romance never died.

Where playful romps
in satin sheets
stayed young, while
tickle wars
and late night passions
conquered worn carpet.

Each morning a fresh
smile, mischievious eyes
and strong libido
would follow our kisses.
And with every shower,
your hands would pronounce
me beautiful beneath the suds
as I drew road maps
over your familar landscape,
stopping to smile
and vacation
in my favorite dips and angles.

The wallpaper would peel
into comfortable smiles,
guarding over
as I'd cook your eggs soft-scrambled,
only browning them a bit
when your hands slink and distract.

I'd never lack for kisses
or conversation, and
every evening I'd wear
your arms around me
to melt away the world.
We'd never tire, no,
but when we did
we'd snuggle and snooze,
limbs entwined and lips
inches apart.

The bookshelves and boudoir
would envy us
our lack of dust
and I'd never walk out the door
without telling you
"I love you."