Aphrodite's Art

She paints . . .

lovely in her innocence,
smelling clean, young, and exciting.
She bites her lower lip in concentration,
sweeping darling blue on my nails.

"To match your eyes," she says.

Caring deeply for the smallest things,
a kitten or lost puppy,
a homeless man on the street,
or a friend in need,
she is simple, kind, and compassionate,
with a depth not always clear.

"You are my joy," she whispers.

How she teases,
touching erotic spots with gentle ease,
finding places that I love,
softly blowing her tender breath on my toes.

"You are my life," she cries.

It is my birthday,
and she is my gift

. . . she paints.




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This was posted over a year ago and pulled from Literotica.com. I am resubmitting the poem. Thank you.