by Michael W. Ollinger

Gray, gossamer light lilts
through the tilted slats
of the Persian blinds,
barely caressing her body.

She drew from the green,
and "September" filled
the warm April air…

The taste of your lips
on mine, a marriage
of pheromones,
feral lust —
ephemeral,
but essential.

Agape connects.
Agape befriends.
Agape emboldens.

& on cue,
the conversation receded,