( )
by Helen Borel
HIPS ARE ARMS.
[circa 1999 (c) Copyright Helen Borel. All rights reserved.]
Him by Helen Borel
His face
Shines at mine
like a burning sun
Wet with incipient
love-making
My mouth waters
My lips drip with
the dew of expectation
The hips of my soul
ache with longing
to enfold his gems
between the thighs
of my heart.
Composed August 19, 2015
(c) Copyright 2015 Helen Borel. All rights reserved.
