It's all foreplay,
every single thing you do
or don't,
each glance,
each breath,
the way you turn your head
or walk across a room,
no one there to notice,
every flower planted,
picked
or twirled,
every pirouette.
It's all foreplay,
all of it,
every
single
thing,
the way you pause,
and check the time,
the way you don't,
unsure
if the perfume
through your half-opened window
is for you,
the scent of skin,
the way you close your eyes,
the oh so
slow anticipation
that precedes everything,
incense lit,
thin wisps of smoke
disappearing into a night
no one ever wants to end,
blinking,
breathing,
beholding
the unbearable beauty of simply being alive,
the touch of a hand,
the thought of a rose,
the way you reach for something you don't really need,
heart opening
like the eyes of a child upon waking.

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