Summer Boy

In between the silk of my thighs
you are grazing on my pinkness like an ox.
The beach’s shores are roaring with insistence,
and I insist too, for your tongue knows each of my corners.

A crab scuttles by, ignorant to us,
and I wonder why I hadn’t your lips sooner.
Boy of twenty-four, so young and so talented,
I grab your hair furiously, bedroom eyes alive and curious.

The sun’s rays shine upon us two,
and one more to beam from the depths of me.
You’ve crawled to me like that crab once did,
but only you have decided to stay and feast on the wetness.

Our clothes have washed out to sea,
and the tides are burping them within, without.
You can read my sighs as if they were your studies,
and I must have that beautiful tongue with its sweet nature.

O, but I can’t say enough about those eyes,
they’re so meek with pleasure, in a lifted gaze.
Those lashes, and that mouth busy as a buzzing hive,
so languid and smooth are your motions, like unseen breeze.

Your body is as lean as the slanted waves,
and I feel that extra rush coming to me hurriedly.
That tongue curves for my desire, panting for drink,
much like the imposing waters that quench a thirsty man.