Pomegranate

It always starts the same, me unsure, you confident, our lips locking, our arms tighten around each other, my favorite part. 

From my waist, your left hand inches up the small of my back, stay there for a moment, you do as if you can read my mind. I tangle my hand in your brown curly hair, slipping the other under the neckline of your shirt, wanting it off— oh, to feel our warmth come together as one, fusing together, burning like the eternal sun. 

You back me up to the wall, not in too much haste ensuring I don’t bruise— you place your hands at my rib cage slowly tracing the curves of waist and hips. You grasp the inside of my waist band with your middle fingers— Oh, you want me so bad, don’t you? I want you to. You begin to move them front and center to the button stopping you from getting inside, under my skin, you pause your sweet kisses to look at me with those blue, begging, hungry, and thirsty eyes. I grant you permission with my eyes but you wait until the word leaves my mouth for the button to be undone— Yes.

Placing your warm, tender hands inside, pulling them to the earth with your wrists while the rest of you go with them. First the right knee kisses the earth, then the left, finally my blue jeans and maroon lacy thong. Time for your hand’s journey back up, like vines— they climb the smooth surface of my skin and resting on my ass. Pulling me forward, your lips to mine, licking the sour juice to quench your thirst and satisfy your hunger, your favorite part.

Like a pomegranate,

we peel back pink skin so that

we may eat the seeds.