My mother always
told me to start small,
slowly building up
to the big stuff.
My mother tells good advice -
for I am no girl who
is caught up in grandiose,
passionate fantasies rivalling
the pinings of a lonely housewife.
My deep, carnal desire - the one
that wills humans to
further the population -
is rather quiet, silent.
It's not ready yet .
Instead, I just want
to curl up with him
(fully clothed) and read a book,
breathing in his leather-soap smell and
twining our fingers together,
marvelling at how tiny
mine seem in comparison.
Instead of roaming tongues
and searching hands, I'm
content with sweet, chaste
kisses - stolen snapshots of
a special kind of warmth.
I'm glad to go slow,
treasuring these simple things
like the sound of his laugh
and the scratch of his scraggly whiskers.
I don't want a housewife's dramatic romance,
but rather a sweet first love story.
