matthew lyon

Silver Ribbon

Slowly, feather-light
I circle my fingertips
down the canvas of your back
like a painter.
Brushstroking fluffy clouds
across your shoulder-blades
grassy hills along your spine
cascading rivers over your hips.
And then I cloak your body in mine
sealing in my designs
before uprooting
your spiral-staircase curls
and drinking from the molasses
of your neck.
Gently, you arch yourself
up towards me
and we find each other
instinctively,
hands locked,
as a stripe of moon
tints your floor-strewn sheets
like a silver ribbon.