The Lovers

Her sweat painted nipples brush against his skin,
Titilating and warming his blood as they gyrate slowly,
She feels his heartbeat ripple through her palm,
Something else rapping to and fro against her thigh,
He kisses her chin, neck down to her navel-
It is so quiet that he can hear her crotch breathe,
She then mourns in a tongue he knows not-
He understands the tongue though-of gasping parenthesis,
His crotch now a pendulum up and down patiently,
Heenters her recess they become one,
One two three times.

poem by Isunge Mwangase
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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