What he Wore in Bed

He wore an invite, naked,
his body was dusted in icing sugar,
waiting to be licked by moonlight.

He wore a smile, bold,
his dreams were fun and frothy,
could be tasted on his lips.

He wore his watch, a teaser
of time, its digital bleeps reminding me
of fading opportunity.

He wore his fists like boxing gloves,
brushed then against my skin, feather strokes,
weighty punches of would you, could you, dare you?
 
 
 

© Simon De Courcey, 2001