You tell me I can rub my fingers--
on, through, and over
your soft, jet-black,
And caress, touch,
hold onto your shaped head
like an EXQUISITE vase,
and finger your ears like the handles
on THAT priceless vase
and smell the LILACS in the vase of your being.
You excite me with your youth and your beauty.
In all that's HOLY
how can I, as old and gnarled
as a crooked desert Mesquite
and as selfish and conniving
as a desert Wolf
stroke the curve of your neck
the sweep of your chin,
the hard nipples of your breast,
to bring you to fruition--
As your lips, tongue and mouth
do for me?
What I would instantly do for you...
I have no thought of what you see in me.
Just enjoy the craziness
as I have learned to do with many
that carry me beyond
the power of thought.
Does one more mystery make a difference?
The mystery of your strange attachment to me?
Take me then with your fingers
and your mouth
and at the finish stand against me
proud and nude with your eyes closed
and the center of your being far away
in some distant past,
wrapped in some distant memory.
Trembling in a ecstasy of thought
stronger than a probing tongue
or plunging fingers
and shiver against my naked body
and ask me, in a whisper against my ear,
ask ME to tell YOU,
ask me to tell you over and over,
that you did me good.
You did me good.
Until you waken somehow fulfilled
by what you did for me...
"Oh, you did me good--
You did me good, beautiful woman,