Our bodies form parallel lines
as we practice creating our own totem
in a sultry simultaneous stretch,
wet beneath the heavy breath
and long yawn
of a humid summer morning.
The gentle brush of your beard
stirs in my belly an expectation
I had previously swallowed whole
a hard pill to digest
but I learned to accept
the chill of loneliness.
Yet, now I feel rivers trickle up
on my thighs and my stomach,
nourishing this dormant seed,
whose shoots push through my mouth
and waltz my tongue into daily dips and twirls
of "I love you's,"
and makes my whole face bloom in your light,
warm and steady embers on a moonless night.
I pull closer to draw your breath into me.
I can't breathe.