Making Love, Slowly Lips caress behind her ear and discover the pervasive balm that belongs only to her. Touching gossamer hair on the nape of her neck, borrowed surely, from a cherubs head. Tongue touching the dewy moisture in the small of her back, And realize the need of the confectioners adding the dash of salt to their sweets. A beauty before me claimed by a Master with satin paint and silk brushes. All the while lying on a bed of rose, lilac, and honeysuckle pedals. The faint orchestral sound, playing a crescendo of song never before heard. And we dance. Slow, rhythmic. An orchestra of heavenly beings, Conducted bye Israfel, The Angel of Songs. We dance as one till we no longer know where I end and she begins. Because it no longer matters. The dance and song seems to have climaxed with a gasp. And noticed a summer storm in the distance. Leaving us with soft rolls of thunder. THayes Feb, 2018