the motion of your beauty

i started an oil with you
in the quiet privacy of a small room
where skin was often warm and wet.

the shades were drawn in my favorite Parisian tones
with a sensuous deep charcoal
while you rested as a beckoning figure with slightly brown eyes.

without the covers,
i climbed willfully onto your sculpted hills,
slipping onto a fingered backside, giggling on the way down
this most delightful slope.

jokingly, you moved independently under my touch and said
"You must be the Olympian master."

the flower near your left ear did not distract me
with its orange softness.

knowing i should complete this canvas,
i am continually intrigued by the motion of your beauty.

our white pillows and their silk wrinkles will become a scandal.