Your skin tastes different;
somehow, I hadn’t expected that.

Sunlight shafts through the window
as the market beneath gets underway;
the warmth of it woke me to your warmth,
its caress as soft as yours.
Spicy air floats up from the crowding stalls
and I strain to hear your breathing
above the raucous cries, the rising chatter,
the all-embracing life-bustle below.
The scent was in your hair last night,
beguiling, thrilling, intoxicating;
up here, the pace is slower,
these fading, flaking walls our palace,
backdrop to our explorations,
gentle laughter and soft sighs…

Your skin tastes different;
somehow, I hadn’t expected that.

Lying here in the early morning,
watching the dust motes spinning,
I experience a moment
of sublime uncertainty,
not knowing if I’m awake or dreaming,
simply sensing, feeling, being.
Half a world away from where I was born
your duskiness calls me home,
the contentedness you bring me
setting you apart from the pale waifs of my past,
the easy conquests and meaningless couplings
of a life so far from here in so many ways.
As you start to stir, I move your hair aside
and run kisses down your naked back…

Your skin tastes different;
somehow, I hadn’t expected that.