No Words, Really Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Be still, my love,
I still am shy,
hard hands, I know
that pumicestone could not
erase the rough,
I shall be gentle though,
your skin speaks softly
of peaches
and of heavy cream.

I breathe as if it were
the very first occasion,
your tiny aromatic glands
a trillion, maybe more
have come to peek at me,
to tease erotic breath
into my inner self.

How silly, Pierre Cardin
and company,
reality does beg to differ,
I have been invited to,
allowed to stay awhile,
the feast of woman's own
I kiss your lids, so paperthin,
and think of Sandman who,
each night enjoys the sight
the glitter in those eyes,
round, sleepy pupils stroking me
half-closed with genuine love.
I drool a bit, knowing you like
just as I do, to share it all,
to taste each other's dreams

Lie still, my love, I have arrived
at the raised junction of your jaw,
the Roman cheek, born in the snow,
a glow of nearly Fuchsia mixed with rouge,
and yes, I am as eager, let me kiss
that mouth of yours, now silently alert,
I feel a PVC beneath your breast
a stumble of your heart, for us
yet not to worry, dear, we're chosen by the gods.

You stir (I thought it would be me) ,
as if to ask what we already know,
so let us dream my love, the night is ours to keep
not even spirits will disturb eternal sleep.