Summer Song

Plurality isn’t enough to tickle you pink.
I’ve shared magical, misty evenings
with endless seekers via somatic unguents
but not unlimited with the one I wanted,
certainly not when I was a louse in love, when
all of me was a photocopy of priapic rush,
when monosemy of skiving left me with
a jack-o’-lantern smile. Numbers never woo.
It kvells to be in sync with one who soothes.
Per contra those consumed by tendresse
on another day may thirst for other thighs.

Originally published at The Mind(less) Muse.