Brush your finger pads across my already flushed skin.
The scent of your hair calls me
like the draw of the sun to the blooming flower.
Your skin tastes of fresh sun-warmed strawberries and heavy-whipping cream—
consumed under the fluorescent light bulb at eleven o’clock at night,
while you and I dance in the almost-silence-
in tandem to the rhythm of the leaves rustling in the trees.
You are the opposite of me,
your toes tap a beat I cannot place.
Your crooked smile and ready laugh are soothing to my ears.
Like the moon brushes the tips of the trees:
I want to brush your hair aside.
trail my fingers down your arm;
You hands within mine
your bright eyes burning behind my closed eyelids.
the orange pads of your carrot-dyed fingers
make you appear to be more cunning then you already are.
Bark at the moon: