Seeking the Fountain Together

Perhaps now; perhaps this time.

I kiss the dew from your lips,
pausing to revel in the moonlight
glistening on the yielding treasure of you,
anticipating the paradise of
the cool of the desert night yielding to the melting sun.

“Do not tarry, my love,” you murmur.
“I see the oasis and the flow of the fountain
just ahead, just there, nearly within reach.
I am almost there.
Come with me.”

Over you, around you, inside you,
I resume the journey to paradise.
Over you, around you, inside you,
we ride, ride, ride from the desert of mounted desire
toward the oasis of erupting release.

“Just ahead!” you cry out.
“See it there?”
The flash of sunlight, the searing heat.
The cry in the night.
“Take me there, Love! Come with me!”

Over you, around you, inside you,
faster, faster we ride,
reaching out for the shelter of the oasis ahead,
of the fountain, the cool waters afterglow.
Over you, around you, inside you.

“Do you see it not?” you cry out.
“The searing sun! The fountain!
We ride together, Love! It’s there; it’s here! It’s now!”
The searing sun of your journey’s end explodes,
fountains, to your melting into the cool embrace of the oasis.

Over you, around you, inside you. Still.
I ride you still as a camel relentlessly undulates across the sands,
seeking for myself your paradise,
the oasis, the fountain, the cooling waters.
Riding you, riding you, riding you.

And seeing my own oasis ahead,
I ride harder, faster,
Through the searing heat and the flowing fountain,
To my own paradise—
and our shared sighs.

“Do not cry, little one,” I whisper,
kissing the dew from your lips,
pausing to revel in the moonlight
glistening on the yielding treasure of you.
Over you, around you, inside you. Again.

“Another oasis arises, where we seek the fountain together again.”
There cannot be too many oases, too many fountains,
too much of over you, around, you, inside you.
Sighing, riding to paradise, enjoying even the journey.
Seeking the shared fountain, again and again.

If not now, the next journey from the desert . . . or the next.
It does not matter much. The journey has its own rewards.