My Love
Your skin glows like the mango, blossoms octagonal as the iris in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your flute voice and leaps like a dingo at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great mockingbird wing.
I am comforted by your thong that I carry into the twilight of icebeams and hold next to my uvula.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of jasmine oil.
As your taint withdraws from my banana hammock, it reminds me of your seawall.
In the quiet, I listen for the last hum of the day.
My heated septum leaps to my cumberbund. I wait in the moonlight for your secret lattice so that we may devour as one,
septum to septum, in search of the magnificient vermillion and mystical hydrant of love.

When her voice is right next to my ear I will wonder if we'll be transitioning away from all things all-dick to something more complete? The bonus is that I'm like confetti from the shredder - made up from one of many little things and each one is different. So no fear of slipping into that realm unprepared. So we just find out that satisfaction comes in sizes: there's the 2 as 1 size and the 1 here and 1 over there size. I'm locked in love with the new former who will always be current. Stay if you want but the ambiance here is microphonic. I am impaired by the silliness of lonestar living. Honorable men can sometimes justify chic ideas but sanguine dudes prefer home on the range. The daily bread says we belong here. I went on to remind the group that the pool was dedicated to Rex Ritter's mom who stood for peace, justice and the American way. In a nanosecond, in walked two burly men in black golf shirts followed by Wayne Newton who announced he was singing next Tuesday night at the pool and it didn't matter to him what anyone wore. Head lady adjourned the meeting as Wayne crooned Red Roses for a Blue Lady a cappella. HOAs make sure assholes don't paint their houses purple.

Forever is eternal, just as the love that brought us here. Aficionados will be unable to offer up lament when detailing this period. The suflay is still a souffle even if the declension looks different. There have been pages written about never veering from the true meaning of forever. This is just one more. If we could see twenty five years from today it may be around the corner but it will still be part of forever. So much more laughter remains to be featured and you can't hurry love. I'm down with field of gold with her heart of gold. I survive because my drive is still alive and I revive from what I contrive for the archive of my list of what I connive. That string of triple nines seems distant but the infrastructure is still intact and improving. Thinking maybe a few armpit farts and singing like Debra Messing might lighten the loafers.