An ode to you and I

I don’t need an ode to masturbation, when
I’m here in your apartment, watching you
sit, with your back against the side of
the bed, topless, with just your
jean on, unbuttoned, but not unzipped,
your slender curves, your hair
tossed back, slightly brown,
I don’t need a drag or two on that spliff
you keep, because that’s faking stimulation,
and I already know what inundates you
with waves and waves of passion,
what floods each iota of you
with a deluge of sensation,
a gentle bite on the side of your ear,
whispered kisses on your neck,
slowly, stealthily, steadily,
and your hushes,
exciting, exhilarating, enticing
more than syllables on a page,
your sighs
energizing, electrifying
more than anything I’ve read you,
your soft breathy moans,
intoxicating, invigorating,
more than the lines I write
on your lower back with an erasable marker,
and as my lips meet yours,
grazing, before gently kissing,
and then a slow tongue,
I don’t need to say anything,
anymore, because I’m soon
lost in the rhythm of us,
a cadence of deeper sighs, moans,
and then lying naked,
the fire of the auburn dawn
pressing its heat through the curtain
against ours, you and I wake,
smoke our cigarettes, a much
after post-coital euphoria,
and I still don’t need an ode or
a sonnet, or hell, a villanelle to
a night spent within and without
sheets, but I immortalize it anyway.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

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