The Night

Quiet. . . . Enveloping night. . . . save. . .
the whisper of breath, somnolent beside.
Humid the evening had been.
Shed linen reveals his long bare form.
Last glimmers of dampness dry, as . . . .
her smile wanders familiar contours.
He is hers

Restless. . . . she rises, drifting. . . .
with naked grace through dim purple rooms,
only to return. . . . restless still, to his bed.
On her side, reclining,
long hair spilled across his abdomen,
cheek upon it, calm, content.

Rhythmic the surge of breath. . . . 
reminiscent of ocean swell, lulls her.
Absently a finger traces patterns,
faintly brushing,
twirling the dark hair of pubis, thigh.
Random patterns, innocent,
as a child might etch in sand.
He is hers.

Subtle the change. . . . minute,
a pulse beneath ear, temple.
In intimate, mirthful awe she watches.
Passion’s Phoenix rises.
Fingers to her lips,
press back the smallest laugh.
Hesitantly reaching. . . . touches lightly. . . 
He is Hers.

Air faint with the scent of hyacinth cools.
Curtains lift. . . . fall.
Her face tilts, nuzzles her warm pillow.
Emboldened. . . . her tongue tickles his stomach.
Hard muscle contracts, spasms,
roused, yet he sleeps.
He is hers.

Slumbering carnal power moves. . . .
vision, flesh, blood melt to a focus,
a vortex. . . . her very center.
Clenching amidst waves of fever chill,
knees press inward.
Trembling she twists, kneeling, hesitant. . . . 

Memory’s flash, she a girl, meadow, wind.
Mounted upon the shivering energy of a Hunter.
Images flood consciousness,    
mingling real within imaginary.
Rush of dark blurred landscape. . . . 
her borne on rippling strength.
He is hers.

Curtains billow out, dance above the bed.
Desire burns, draws.
Compulsion overcomes restraint.
Fearful . . . . expectant . . . . 
she swings astride him . . . . 
gently . . . . arched, chin high,
in a single gasping slide.
He is hers.

He moves . . . . below, within, yet he sleeps.
Tender she bends to kiss, breasts brush his chest.
Knees press, gripping, she moves.
Slow as a rider posting, gathering,
quickened as the timeless rhythm takes her.

High, free, she raced the moon.
Stars stream past to burst,
explode behind her eye’s.
Blind . . . . rhythm lost midst sudden upheaval . . . . 
She is thrown tumbling,
crushed beneath, held helpless.
For breath, struggling in panting liquid fire,
pacing, falters. . . .
Possessed, trembling, spent, she succumbs.
Limp, languid, sated.
Child-like, with half murmurs curls,
within, without, in warm slumber.
She is his..

Quiet. . . . the enveloping night. . . .
save her soft breath.
He propped, resting on an elbow, studies her hair,
Pleasantly bewildered, a short laugh springs out.
He lies back. . . . sleepless, he looks upon her.
Woman, Wife . . . . Mystery,

She is his.


By Roger C Horton

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