a bonfire of logs of limbs

buttercups!
don't wake up yet
let your sleep laden smoky eyes
wander in hazy blue hues of dreams

let me caress you with my eyes
for a few more precious moments
as my fingers slide
on your soft, smooth, high cheek bones
let me follow the contours
of your chest, heaving
with shallow, unlaboured half-asleep breaths

irritated with a stray strand of auburn hair
on your quivering upturned nose
you crease your forehead with a flickering frown
and brush it away

an afternoon overflowing with lazy interludes of foreplay
an evening brimming with unbridled romance
a nightful of rich, sculpted love...
till now, these were a mere recipe
from a intellect-curdling paperback
but the beginning of this day,
still warm with dying embers
- from the bonfire of our logs of limbs -
makes me chant
"love is mine" in the same tone
barbara cartland must have crafted
the love-laced tome of the same name in 1952

i trace an outline of my commitment
round the gold band
wrapped round your sensuously slender finger
and amuse myself with
your upturned curve of a parted mouth
parched for a kiss perhaps
i oblige
my quench not yours
with a feather light brush of dry lips
startled, your doe eyes
open wide - and seeing a familiar intruder
drift back to the land of nirvana
satisfying me
with a rushed return
that also insists
goodbye for now

i go
but i shall be back
soon