What secret potions have
you conjured up, Love,
to have me so under your spell?
Delicious soft magic.
I love you. How can I not?
Leaning back against you,
your lips on my hair, my neck,
hands between my naked thighs,
two poets waxing eloquent.
Heaven's spectacular fireworks
singe the autumn sky, wind flares,
fluttering flushed skin as you
strike a match to dry hickory,
the hot sulfur searing our noses,
a wild dragon's breath, scorching,
burning, while we watch
earthy embers smoke, then glow,
smolder, turn to cinder, finally ash.
Moisture burns my eyes.
I tell you it's smoke.
You say I've given up hope.
Your words strike certain
spiritual angry sparks in my heart.
Because to covet your silky hair
curling beneath my grasping fingers,
to need to see your eyes flare
with burning passion,
these dreams want poetic license,
require a leap of faith.
For my dreams, I offer no defense.
Just know, the day I apologize
for wanting to be with you,
to see you, to touch you,
that is the day I have given up,
for I ache for those things between us.
That is the epitome of hope.
Merry Christmas, Darling,
my sweet romantic prince,
my oh so precious sweetheart,
my rascal poetic scoundrel,
my oh so naughty brat, my friend,
my confidant, my poetic muse
who inspires me to be more
than I might have been without him.