His Hand In Mine Poem by R.B. OBrien

His hand in mine,
we yank each other
like children
from shop to shop,
the smell of sex
and sand and salt
still fresh in our hair,
pointing at windows and signs.
Antiques, tables, and chairs.
The etchings of art
on weathered picture frames.
The jewelry made of shells and rocks.
And the bookstore,
where our fingers dance over ink,
smiles reach our eyes,
and coffee touches the lips
that had devoured each other
only hours before
that will
touch once again
as sure
as high-tide at noon
and sunset at 8.

(from Ruin My Lipstick)