Playing with Fire

The small of her back, the rise of her rump, sends shivers through
me, I am the wanderer lost in this soft muscle, behold the shoulder
observe the deltoideus slope, it gives me goose bumps, I am agog,
I am aghast, is this my fate, am I at home at last?
The arch of her eyebrow as she turns to find my roaming fingers
tracing the lines of her laterals down the valley of her spine,
the cliffs of our desire, the soft sweat, the musk of dandelion wine.
I am filled with so many words, the verbatim of fire, the angst
of longing to touch the palm of her left hand, flicking her
fingertips gently like blades of tanned grass, worn yet still
feminine grace, her whimsical smile at my naivety, the enduring
wrinkles that make her my immortal love creasing the corners of her
lovely face,
She breathes in shallow breaths, wisps of mint dreams, raising her
pectoralis major rolling her biceps, triceps, resoundingly  familiar
intimately respectful memory where all her virtues would be, she
is laughing softly up at me, should I be this fortunate, are we still
all that we wanted to be?
No expectations, no reservations, no enunciation can capture all
that I wish to think she is as we lie there in her bed, waiting for the
inevitable interruption that will drive us apart from such musings
out into the world, away from this clarity of thought, sight and sound,
back down into the mire of sexual misfires that are so infinitely confusing.
I am a man or a woman or someone who just wants to remember that
moment when she woke up to the sensual situation locked somewhere
between biological configuration and my misplaced need for imagination.
Are we not all we want each other to be? Am I this lucky or is she just
happy enough to sleep next to me?