My Dalbergia
I saw you bathed in the evening sun—
warm shades of gold resting soft against your skin.
You could not have been more handsome
than you were that one July evening.
Your aura—steady, sure—moved with purpose.
Your very being carried the name that could only be yours:
my Dalbergia melanoxylon—
dark, deep, alluring.
Your hand was strong, powerful,
tracing decadent paths as oil slipped
in slow, deliberate trails from your fingertips.
I was drunk on your essence,
intoxicated by the thoughts you stirred.
Uncontrolled pulses beat in time
with the sweet members at play.
Rhythm and stroke repeated,
again and again,
reason dissolving into the glistening sweetness that pooled and flowed.
Notes rose—plucked in perfect unison—
until, spent and satisfied, you rested.
We rested.
Together in the warm golden light
of that evening in July.
