…Passion it always starts with the passion…

We live our lives sonnet-like,

Strict            rigid               reserved

She is a quick kick of free verse.



Morning amnesia fades….

Last thought while walking away…

“Are we really the bad guys?”


A long embrace, arms are anacondas squeezing the breath out of this moment.

One last kiss… not necessary.

We’ve already swapped spirits.


You with Cheshire grin and memory lapse;

Me with regret this hadn’t happened before.

Bed askew, missing foot-board

Twisted blanket placed over fetal me,

You on floor, I want more.


3 tequila shots, 2 vodka shots, 4 pineapple mojitos…

And the wanting to feel fingertips trace my torso.

She, refined even when drunk out her mind.

On the walk home, romance hits us like

Bird shit                –      Wet and unexpected.

Our kisses             –      Wet and unexpected.

On the front lawn of Joe Anybodies apartment.

In the morning we arose topless with the sunrise,

Lusty eyed, passion marked and unsatisfied.

Relapse on drug between thighs.


Her words,    Divine.

Her speech,   The vine that produces grapes for

Fine wine

Her writing   Defies time.

We play haiku tag on cell phone pads

She’s it, writes:

“Fingers in my hair

Always on my mind, I just

Want you in my bed”

I reply in kind:

“Daydreams are torture

When their reality is

Just out of your reach.”

We breathe… deep…


Timid eyes cross in uniform, culture-clad room.

Says she has hope; I’ve been hoping for years.

Liked mind goals, she wants to save the lives of peers.

I want to peer into her eyes and draw her near,

But work restrictions cause both of us fear.


I can’t resist people who place passion behind their purpose…

Because it’s always about passion.

It always starts with that passion.

The same way it always ends….

With a multitude of


Categories: Poetry, SexyTags: , , , , , ,

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