Between silk sheets
and the encompassing heat
of our bodies meshed together,
I will never again know hunger.
I will wake up to sun’s first light
and your morning breath and
not remember what life was like
before I was this content;
when I was starving just to be
wrapped up with you
entwined with you,
together in bed.
With my chest pressed against yours,
with my flesh meshed against yours,
your fingers trailing down my side,
squeezing my hips,
and stroking my thighs,
it amazes me how people prefer reservations
at stuffy restaurants with dark lit alcoves,
rather than the privacy of their bedrooms,
where knives and spoons and forks aren’t required
to eat “formally”.
Your tongue traces patterns on my collarbones and
you lick at the skin that encompasses their surface,
like they are rims of margarita glasses and
you are craving salt.
I slide my hands up your chest,
palms flush with your chest and you watch me carefully.
You lift a free hand to trace the slope of my nose
and the dip in my cupid’s bow,
until you slide your finger between my lips,
and I suck teasingly.
I wonder why,
as you rise off the mattress, and sink your fingers
into the curves of my hips,
making sure I remain balanced,
people save the term sweetness for candy,
because when your lips meets mine and
our tongues collide,
I have never known a better sugar rush.
And if we miss the smell of crackling bacon,
or freshly baked cookies,
I’ll light candles around the room
and our bed will be the altar.
We will sacrifice our bodies to each other night
if only to absolve for the fact that we did not
revel in each other,
love one another
as much as we could’ve the night before.
crave for their beaus to bring them
scrambled eggs and bacon, laid out on
porcelain plates on top of
wooden trays with a daisy in a vase,
teetering in the corner.
If they knew what I knew,
how well you feed my appetite,
breakfast in bed would not be satisfying
unless their and their lovers’ bodies
met each other