Brush Strokes

Another May morning
stumbling upon splendor
of sun waking miracles

in fields of Zinnia;

petals propelling wings
of unsuspecting flutter.

Night falls quietly, this sublimity
when moonlight meets lovers
with a sky full of stars,
prancing in and out
of the shadows of lashes;

fingers intertwined, silk of skin
replenished by kisses, moist;
silhouettes juxtaposed, creating curve-

brush strokes of pulse

dissuading haste,
forfeiting any hint of hesitation
exalting whisper; this fervor,
this beatitude now frequent

whenever his lips meet mine.

~

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