sappho

there’s nothing perfect about the moment

however, blemishes are discarded and forgotten

it’s the heartbeat of a sprint buried in a marathon

there’s a symphony here

a  violoncello teased by the bow

just as a tongue entices supple lips

until it finds that note

saliva mingles with release

it’s nothing more than an aperitif

a crescendo prior to the  course

held down by more than a mere neuton

but rather under the force of hips

masterful strokes pluck the heart

as a harp

and when she pulls out

there’s that slow 

drip