Our tongues were whisks and dabbing handkerchiefs.
Saliva washed away our dribbling griefs.
Our fingers stroked our downy, musky skin
In search of prizes lost and still to win.
We found each other soft and firm and hard.
For long enough we peeled away our guard,
Exposing flesh to skin, to touch, to feel,
To stroke, to grope, to through expression heal
Our wounds of battles lost through absence long
And fought with sharpened prods of moral wrong.
I felt I had a maiden just defiled -
But which of us was more a kind of child?
Your body, taut yet well experienced?
My late-maturing soul, by you incensed?
Your delicate, entwining, gracious thighs?
Or my ecstatic, skyward-rolling eyes?