The Chair

As the snow falls I settle into
a familiar chair. Feet tucked, warm
fingers flip aged pages, a calling
from deep within to step outside

my slow minded tendencies. An encircling
harmony houses my inhibitions. Sipping wine,
selecting which lotion, lavender

I think. Satisfying, smooth, long strokes,
massage tired muscles into waking up.
Feeling that sensual pool, pick up,
and slide down. Deviating fingers

divulge hidden secrets, too long
forgotten. Tingling skin, teased
by tracing hearts, and silent

" I love you's " tattooed
in by mimed fingers. From hips
to thighs, I pencil
in slow circles, mapping out every

touch, he ever made. Twin digits press,
please, pamper and prepare
a save point, another memory

for a distant cold day when his memory
per chances a visit, with a sensual kiss,
on another long cold night, when he

is no longer near. Four legs
and a feather cushion are indented
by two willing, wanting bodies.
From a slow grind with deep

penetrating strokes, round,
slide, held close, in my lovers
arms. We, bare as the trees

outside, twin each leaf's fall
with another stroke, taking
it's place. Playing, groaning

moans of eroticism, encourage
more. Clear window panes witness,
a wet, rough, slow

sweet loving and lingering
visions take root, until
this day, as I again, lethargically

retake each minxy move, to save
and share one lost days
encampment, from one lonely chair,

to the turning of another long,
lost page ....