Shoulder Blade Braille and Floating Stars

It was a slow drip, the way he made love to me. Exhaling sighs into my bones, letting fire mix with marrow. His fingers pulsed into my skin, and I could feel his heart beat under the blue rivers of his wrist. I let him seep into me. The smell of his evening shower, and the grizzly needles along his jawline dotting Braille along my shoulder blades.


I watched from my window – the black sea hang below an even blacker sky – supple bursts of starlight coating the air with sweet flavors of winterberry and rooibos. Sea foam hoping to catch those falling gems, mini treasures to carry out to great depths, probably wished for by lonesome sailors searching for a French kiss or that old topographic map, whichever feels more like home.

Footprints on the Moon

The way you kiss me. God, I have not been kissed like that in a long time. I had almost forgotten all about romance. The rosy cheeks and swollen lips and star spangled eyes. How our tongues are made of honey and our lovemaking can be found among hidden gemstones and orbiting planets. Undiscovered galaxies and unexplained footprints on the moon.


It’s hard pressed to find these days, but it’s still necessary. Graffiti art and passionate sex. Random musings and understanding what makes another tick. Finger paint and finger foods. He doesn’t know it, but I am craving romance.

Sour Patch Smiles

We waltz into the late afternoon, feet up on teal chairs and eyes under chandeliers of fans. Linen tablecloths, linen napkins, out in the terrace room. Two of a kind, the perfect team. We are a Monday kind of King and Queen.