Light and Color

When we speak, your voice awakens a small seed in my lower belly that blossoms and aches to break the surface. Your nearness stirs the dry palette inside me like watercolor, spilling moisture into each carefully constructed compartment. With one hand brushing my cheek as your lips invade my own, the colors swirl and drip down, etching poetry onto the canvas of my thighs. I let loose my white knuckle hold on morality and sink deeper into your sunlight. The heavy gates of my eyelids lift in submission as you pull those lips away and I can feel a summer afternoon spreading across my star soaked skin.