samba

gliding, wordlessly,
my cheek pressed tight
against yours,
the night, cool, with a
gentle breeze;
your dress, ivory,
and flowing all around you,
and my thoughts
escaping, though I try
to hold them back,
they take me off-track,
as I imagine the many
pleasures
that we will know;
a simple 4/4 beat,
designed simply to
entreat two into one,
but the song never ends,
nor does the fun;
you alone have my heart,
as you knew from the very
start; the part when you
played the tart, and I
plied my trade, the simple
gigolo, and back then,
little did we know,
that from such an unlikely
pairing, eternity we would
be sharing,
but I would not undo
a thing.



July 2, 2009, for the Wifey. Will it ever end? No.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.