Untitled #11

Je t’aime, je t’aime, 
she was teaching him the French

with her head on the pillow next to him
and her eyes staring into him 

like incandescent emeralds,
his throat nearly paralyzed 

as he tried to repeat the words, 
then the next, ce soir et toujours,

the chemistry flooding their senses like a drug, 
and he could've laid there for a thousand days 

with his face on that pillow, 
sinking into a lock of her cheveux roux 

and je t’aime, je t’aime,

then she took his hand and kissed it, 
placed it on her bare stomach, 

and ran his fingers under her blouse
until he watched his hand rise and fall 

on her accelerating breath
as she said the next words.

• Love
• Lust
• National Poetry Month
• Passion
• Romance