Poems on the subject of love making, part 2.

What

was I meant

to do.

She stared at me,

as if she were famished

for something sweet,

and my face

was a pastry

in a glass case.

You know the look,

you've felt it take shape in your cheek muscles

standing in line at the bakery.

I was caught in two beams of light

or two radiant spheres

or two precious stones

or two headlights

headed for an imminent train wreck.

blinded by the glare

there was no evasive option,

but to awkwardly eschew her invitation

would be a cowards denial,

a nervous consternation.

I dispatched a kiss,

landed my warm sponge over her fleshy pillows

and slowly expounded upon the exposition,

the rolling tides of lip

over lip

over lip

struggling to drown her lip

under my lip

the succulent meal of that upper lip.

Theme one

was mouths pressed into a brawl

for an unassailable satisfaction,

but when I stood back and took a breath,

I could see Theme two curved around her pupil,

in warped reflections

there appeared my desperation.

I could hear words uttered gently

that carried the impediment of sadness,

and I could feel the weight in my lungs

that staggered my tremulous breathes.

What

was I meant

to do.

She stared at my face,

and prognostic images

of archetypal love

swung about my head,

the smoky shroud of my imagination,

concealing the premonition

of pain.

If I could only be satisfied with her stare.