She moves me

Three years later and watching
her dance
is still like watching snow
fall.
The curve of her hip,
the swell of her breast,
the very scent of her
calls me home.
Now she does the dance
she dances for me
alone.
My hands grasping her
generous
undulating
hips,
her hands clutching
red flannel sheets.
Tremors wrack
her body and
her hands fly to my hair,
trying to draw me
into her.
My love is on the tip
of my tongue
and she moves me.
She tenses,
hips driving upward,
and I taste
her passion.