Disappearing Act Poem by Oliver Roberts

I count the sounds
coming off your body;
the back and forth
and back
and
forth
of your bottled
hurricane.

It is all your own,
this special treatment
of me.
I am assured
there is nothing
unplanned about the way
you display yourself,
nor is it by accident
that this light
casts off from your skin
like an Arctic fire.
Even now,
in this devout privacy,
you kiss me
as if we had only
five seconds left
before somebody caught us.

This is all still so new to me.
Maybe it's the bravery
of your breasts
and the peaceful posion
in your eyes
that convinces me
you've got this figured out.
But maybe I'm wrong.
Maybe
you're just like me,
a feather on a windowsill
waiting for the wind.