L C Vieira
It's six and you're asleep,
tired after a day of zipping through the jungle.
I kiss your back and taste the cool air against your freckled skin,
I count one, two, three - and stop at seventeen,
choosing instead to breathe in light soap and sweat
below the short hairs of your quiet neck.
Your shoulders rise and fall with each breath,
I kiss one silver twinkle on your head and marvel at your rest,
my thighs nestled behind yours,
holding the night, hoping it won't end.
(2005, slightly revised 2012)
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Comments about this poem (Seventeen Freckles by L C Vieira )
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