THAT RHYTHM SHE MAKES
Like that rhythm she makes on his body, anodyne,
unknowingly steering her hands across his
skin,
a ship on a calm water,
making a tempest of the ocean,
like Ariel the fairy.
The storm is in
his soul.
Exhaling hard on his ears,
for a moment, tempestuous risings of troubles unsaid;
breathing hard
on his back;
helping fallen strands of his hair get up.
Oh but how intermittent they are;
how fleeting the sound of her breath;
how erratic the rhythm
she makes on him;
how disparate her touch!