By Freya Barker
I can see the sunlight rippling off your back,
Golden beams enflame the soft strands
Of your hair,
Ablaze like a heavenly crown.
I watch your fingers curling at your sides,
They stretch and twist absent-mindedly,
Brushing the soft skin of your thigh –
Soft – like the heavy velvet curtains
And the brush of a kiss
On my neck.
You turn your head towards me,
The light casts shadows in the sinewy contours
Of your flesh,
Running like rivers on a map.
Shrouded in darkness or
Ignited in sun.
I want to draw in your crevices
And let the ink run down your muscle,
A work of classical Italian art,
To carve you out of paper.
I can hear the scratch of the needle
On the vinyl,
Dulcet trumpet and silken piano,
Liquid like cream satin or melted chocolate.
The aroma of coffee drifts lazily through the air,
Twirling its feather boa like a lady on a cigarette card,
Here comes the morning temptress.
You hold me into you,
Feather kisses through my hair
And fit your palm in the curve of my waist.
Whispering stories of another land.
You are Adonis, Leander, Paris.
My head rests in the crook of your elbow:
Arms and hands and skin,
Lying languorously in a tangle of limbs.
I want to nestle there until the moon shines.
Illustration: Nicole Wu