Making sense

If ever love has sought a meaning,
the simple case for love is this:
your brown eyes in the half-light grinning
as, stirred from sleep, we bend to kiss.

Drowsily we drift together
and, seeking sense in love’s commands,
write our truths upon each other
in wordless poems, with our hands.

Slowly…. slowly…. time and distance
fade and languid limbs commence
summoning with sweet insistence
needs that have no future tense.

Each tendered touch of grazing fingers
draws from my lips complicit sighs
that guide your hand; it flows, then lingers
so lovingly between my thighs.

My legs spread wide, our bodies locking
lips to lips, we press and grind
slowly…. faster…. smoothly rocking,
till ending's all that fills our minds.

Harder now…. dismissing reason,
our bodies merge to one intent:
if love’s owed sense, this act is treason,
each end exquisite punishment.

Salved, we sleep and, at our waking,
in each other’s eyes know this:
if love has sense, it’s in its making
or, better yet, has none, but is.