Languor's whispers

I know I can’t mean
as much to you
as you me. I

don’t know. Your
meaning, your
meaning. Nothing

is secure, the idea.
Boundlessness.
Short of breath.

I know there’s who
and there’s… the idea,
the idea of who. I

don’t know. “I
don’t-feel-the-same-way” –
but you

trust me – entrust
confidences –
are right to.

A friendship of months
yet I kiss
as a friend,

almost a friend,
of years. I...
“try-to-keep-things-light”

and I hope.

* * *

*

Straps stripped,
tans’ stripes,
laps and lips, lush
soft locks.

Languor’s whispers
to longing, listening.

*

The release

of play and please,
quietly now allowed.

Two
perfects the crowd.

*

A lick, a life.
The lyric lazed within,
the link

of glow and glimpse,
the jewels
of just ourselves.

*

Lying in.

Lambency from shirk,
the glints
from whys and whines
(work), the shoosh
of sigh-by-sigh
drumming of the hum.

*

Friendless.

Hand-in-hand’s routine
routed, de-planned:
forwarder, franker, fresher,
serious leisure.

Louts – us –
dedicated layabouts,
blunt
and blameless (would-be).

*

Touch, and touch’s could-be
deep shallows, lap
and kiss, sense-sipping lips,
finger-tips.

*

The taste-sniff
sniff-taste
hear of here, the see

of near-bounded, no,
the near-boundless sea.

*

Touch, touch, touch.

Hopes, love, luck,
perfect just,
a right too much.