Candles,
ten tea lights,
cast glowing warmth.
Warmth fills a tub of clear water.
Tap waters marry and
whip liquid soap streams into
frothy bubbles of sandalwood
wrapped in vanilla.
Vanilla bean beads of goodness
baptize my hectic hell
on this day.

Today,
daylong pressures made
camp on my shoulder.
Achy shoulders,
my shoulders
balance boulders and
hold up weighty bags of
issues that
cause the cogs in my joints
to lock and block me from
maintaining my normal
sexilicious stride.

Those strides made thick
calluses that plague
the balls of my feet,
which I consider a privilege.
A privilege it is...
and a rite of passage
for a woman, me,
to rock
cause-‘em-to-gawk
hooker heels.
Mmm.
Healing heels, ankles, calves,
and thighs soften
from soaking and floating
in a porcelain boat of
block-out-the-bullshit,
right now.

Now,
relaxation stains
strained muscles,
and lust chokes
innocent intentions.
Initial intentions involved
getting clean, but now my cul-de-sac
calls for immediate attention.
Attention beckons relief,
propels uncontrollable urges,
because of a recalled assurance,
a seed you watered last night...

Still Beautiful

I smile and wonder...
“Uh, who gave you permission to enter my tub, my thoughts?”

My thoughts beg my hands
to feed and nurture the affirmation
you whispered in my ear last night
just before I closed my eyes.

I close my eyes, now.
I am helpless now,
surrounded by wetness now,
yet thirsty for
your touch,
your caress,
your knuckles knocked flush
against my vee lips.

Illusions of a knock-knock and a
cracked door precede your
mile-long smile with smizes,
your nine inch growing protrusion,
your mushroom-capped rocket
breaking through the darkness.

Dark desperation 
overshadows 
last night’s shadow and 
foreshadows the penetration 
of not just a finger, 
but the sum total of
all four fingers
pressing deep into 
my cul-de-sac.

My cul-de-sac 
is caught in a 
concentration gradient 
grasping for last night’s thrusts 
and reaching into
right now throbs.
Throbbing increases 
with my quickened pulse,
as my fingers attempt 
to match the
thickness and weight 
you delivered.

And my hand feels for
mammary, symmetry 
that once was and
is no longer.
A long concave badge 
now resides in
the place where
ripened rubenesque 
dwelled...

And instead of dwelling 
on what was,
I push deeper into
into my cul-de-sac, 
stretching and 
fulfilling
the seed you watered. 
I water and concentrate 
on that which is, 
because I am indeed...

Still Beautiful.