I have never met a man who
chain smokes the morning light quite like
you do. Reads my lips over
coffee and cream.
Who swallows the sky just
to make love to the rain.
You hanging stems from the
ceiling for me: basil, rosemary,
thyme.
Your skin is the fading of amber
oceans
opening the arms of twilight,
drips hot and slow
upon my tongue
at table.
I crawl weightless
upon your knee.
The shape of my shoulders
is the way you taught me to dance
in the deadheat of night
dressed only in white linen
footsteps.
Your voice sifting the shadows down
across my fading afternoon
toes. Your song comes to me
like wine.
Setting fire
to the pages
of words left unspoken,
unfolding the bed
discarding the poetry.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 