I daydreamed of him as the candles flickered,
his sexy charm, bedroom eyes, teasingly seductive physique and muscular arms,
and how he knew beginning to end, of my flair.
That I breathed and spoke poetry fluently,
sometimes in tongues,
he’d be unaware.
Yet deep as my poetry,
my daydreamed King understands, in my hour of bareness,
Often, taking and kissing both, my hands.
As I brainstorm,
graced by his presence,
motivated by his attempts too deliver my mentally unborn, present.
Sometimes he’d find me heavily, so deep in thought,
confidence in knowing
it’s never about him,
in which my head is caught.
Bringing endearing gifts, too uplift,
my shift with coffee, a neck massage, or the most passionate kiss.
Even inquiring the possibility, of something
overlooked or missed.
Seated and fascinated by my perfection,
appreciative of the rhythm, in my words,
often getting a rise,
while holding the ladder,
that encourages my surge.
Loves my craftiness in word play,
while intelligent enough too feed
my mind unlimited angles, too splurge .
He witnesses the reality,
is romantically inclined too explore,
enjoying my fictional and humorous ways,
as well as my sexual galore.
Holds me often,
looking in my eyes, for the mushiness, that remains my, shtick.
Looking forward too once I’m done,
he’d passionately, sit reading.
As I reward his patience,
with a massage of my own,
while his mind gets further blown,
like the scented candle’s wick.
Poetry By Tamara Dorsey-Moore
Thinker on the Loose
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