Body Language

 

In the dark

wakeful night

thick and black

as the three AM sea beneath the balcony,

waves and breath 

rise and fall.

His

Mine

His

Mine

 

Silk sheets

graze my calf,

form sharp wrinkles under my right thigh;

the pillow cradles the left side of my neck

more than right,

His hand

My thigh

His hand

My weathered creases.

 

Eyes adjust

under the moon’s aureole,

light and shadows illuminate his smooth mocha body, 

his face

crevices and lines

come into soft relief.

His fingers

My areola

His skin

My hand

His inner thigh

 

The familiar becomes new again.