LOVE OF JASMINE.

[dadio]

Jasmine smells, as other women don’t.
You are biased no doubt. You dare not
Let her from your keen sight too long, lest
Other men, weak schmucks, take in her smell
And are sucked into her beauty and sweet
Ways as well. You love to wake mornings
And feel her there, sense the being of her
Breathing, the ins and outs, the rising breasts
And fall, the closed eyes dreaming of other
Worlds, climes, maybe loves, and other
Guys. You doubt that. Push from thoughts.
Push away such dream-world betrayals,
Draw her into your arms for morning hold
And kiss and whispered words. She moves
In her sleep as she does awake. Her lips pout,
Her eyelids flutter and her arms fling wildly out,
As young ballerinas may do in dance, no doubt.
Now you lay back and gently stare, leave her to
Her motions there. Her deep breathing, almost a
Language in itself, fascinates you by its rise
And fall, its wordless song. Jasmine, you whisper,
Your words, fragile as silken tread, touch her
Soft ears, to reach inside her head. She moves
Her lovely face away. Her breasts, face, eyes
And features are not in sight. You place a hand
Upon her thigh, think of the hot love made often
In the night, and smiling a sad smile, you sigh.