This is not a time for passion. We fought. Or is it?
Afterward you showered. Washing me from you?
The mystery, though, is lying again now, in a towel.
Two drops glistening above your breast.
On a usual afternoon in the Sahara, or hell -- Nevada
these would evaporate for God's reasons in minutes.
But here we are in Princeton, cloudy, drapes closed.
What would even Jesus do? --- Not being Him
I lean in for an answer. Unfold you. And lick you dry.
Eyes closed, you do not see the wallpaper unravel.
Your smile is all I need to know that I said it right
when I said the words before everyone we know. 'I do'.
-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2013 --