Salt rims her eyes,
where tears had been.

Mascara runs on
jacquard cheeks; Pierrot.

Pale lips part:
shells, hollow,
pinholes,
twilight.

Luminous anemone,
fluorescent trails,
miles of blue in green.

God, her aroma
sweet, incense,
sweat, essence
hot on the exhale.

Nothing so soft
as the space between her eyes.

Ride her nose,
down dimples,
for lips.

Arabesques ’bout her lobes,
carve the neckline’s
long mortise.

Filigree atop her skin,
dampened, one continuous kiss,
without time nor need for air.

I yell for the world to “Clear!”
a time for fibrillation.
(I’m thinking maybe titillation?)

Or getting to the point:
distillation.

I lose myself in her,
double our hulk,
our girth.

For every front,
a back. For every figure,
a ground. For every pull on the string,
fluttering wings in the palm.

For every locked gaze
lays a walkway.

A john boat, a fair, the tunnel of love,
caramel, candy apples.

We coil together,
we roll and we tumble,
play-doh, rock, and sinew.

And in the end,
she’d prop up on elbows,

she’d say,
“You’re my favorite people.”

© Carlos Chagall, 2013