words

your chrome skin dictates
a more delicate touch,
something only native elements possess,
wind and fire and water,
the breath of the evening,
the tips of my fingers
interrupting the moonlight shore
of your flesh.

your hips are something else altogether
that i cannot coherently discuss,
it becomes a mess of words and sounds
and half-wit moans
for your movements are surreptitious,
sudden and mollifying,
able to quiet my mouth
and cause my heart to hesitate.

your shoulders weave a silken trace
as they slide up and down,
your spine is a ladder i wish to climb,
the curve of your back
a romance i must succumb to,
the back of your thighs
a calm moment, a saturday morning.

your form is halved in perfect symmetry
and i am but a peasant in this regard,
watching and waiting and knowing,
knowing that you are not
a thing i am meant to know,
just an image or idea that exists
to keep me on the edge of an unfinished madness.

-S.C. Martinez