Saturday, November 14, 2015

to the soldier. (II)


the sweaty warmth
on my naked back
wakes me up
satisfied but thirsty.
He has covered me like a blanket.
legs intertwined with mine
He has fixed himself as a question mark,
Exerting his muscles
Covering my edges
and spaces
Filling my depths 
and gorges.
His left hand holds me to his chest
as gentle as water bubble
cupping my breast.
But
The right hand fingers 
that 
traced the tip of my hair
to the tip of my toe nail
waking me to multiple wants
and desires
are now
balled up in a fist.
as if he is ready
(like a lion of Sahara)
To spring at any moment.
is it the sands our legs carried
that are spread like grains
on the creased and crinkled 
white canvas we are painted on
that puts him on guard?
Reminding him.
of the far far land
of sun and sand
of blood and sweat
of bomb and bullet.
I turn and face him.
I trace his scars and cuts.
they are everywhere.
on his lips.
on his chest.
on his feet.
I kiss each of them.
He sighs and smiles in his sleep
He turns and twists
fixes himself like a blanket over me.
Again.

But, his fingers don't relax.
As always.
He sleeps fitfully.

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