The details

The moment before we kiss you always look at my lips.. and I love that.
.. I like the way you can't remember words, while I'm stroking you.
Your fingers love one particular curl in my hair..
When we see each other, I like the sexy smile you always try to hide.
You love to have your lips licked. So do I.
I love it when you 'accidentally' forget to wear a bra.
When we dance, I love kissing you.. because it makes people jealous that we can dance and that we are kissing.
The stove in my van is still dented from your bottom.
I remember winning your kiss in a game of pool.
I remember losing a game of pool and still getting your kiss.
You change things about yourself quietly.. I love that.
You are always game for random acts of sensuality.. So am I.
I love how you look in my shower in the afternoon.. wet, and covered in sunlight.
You stare at me when you think I'm not looking.
I stare at you when I think you're not looking.



Andrew Tipton

Our Dreams. Together.

We dance on the last beams of sunlight.
Sundance. Festival. In the field.
Blades of yellow and green, slender stalks.
Up to our knees as we disappear
where no one can see us.
There is nothing clothing you except a
sheer red skirt,
draped about the curvature of your waist.
Concealing you from the stars' eyes.
Your skin is a glow. Moonlit.
Pale perfection.
The strands of your curls falling loose between
your breasts.
I throw down a blanket. Climb onto its softness.
Watching you is like watching honey-bees making honey.
You make my mouth wet. I am hungry for your sweetness.
You make my mind curious at the ways. At the motion.
Bare hands plucking at the sky. You tease the sunset with your fingertips.
My eyes trace the slope of your arms and the pleasure of your muscles.
You are not weak. You are powerful and feminine.
Your body is the signature of god.
Written in my language.
Your hips move to the earth's laughter. Womanly full hips.
Your bare feet clutching the earth beneath you.
I pull you towards me. Press your nakedness into my skin.
I feel the eruption of my nerves in a roar. Begging me never to let go.
As I inhale, the scent of summer rivers fills my mouth.
I want to navigate you. Venture into tumbling depths. And push myself beneath your surface.
Your poetry is still in my ears. The way your read it to me.. quietly, certainly.
I picture your mouth make the shape of the letter "b". Slowly with emphasis.
Keep dancing with me. Until the night comes and hides you away from me.
Until I have to strain every ounce of my sight to catch the moon reflecting in your eyes. Keep dancing.




-Andrew Tipton

White Sheets

Tangled sheets, white.
Soft. Light spilling
through her blinds..
Pillows reckless.
inviting for the touch.
Her shirt tossed away.
Bare. Eyes. Dark brown,
drift to her slender.
Wild fruit surrendered.
Timid through the shadows.
Delicate. Satin curves.
A rose petal tip. Hers.
Lingers there.
Honey.suck.le. Gentle fierceness.
His mouth makes perfect. Circles
Traces her. Follows the sunshine that bathes the edges.
Wanders across her supple.
Nectarine skin.
Sharing the wave. together.
rise and fall.
Wet on his lips. In his mind.
His is on the bed.
On the tangled sheets.
Watching the light dance.
Over. She.


Andrew Tipton

Where are You?

Where are you?
Close to his arms?
In between the warmth?
I am awake to wonder.
Her arms limp around me,
Her sleeping breathes in my ears.
But I am yours. You ride my thoughts like a chariot,
around my guarded walls.
I close my eyes.
My hands stroking her.
But. Really. Stroking you.
Where are you?



Andrew Tipton

Waterfalls

Black tresses.
A midnight waterfall spilling down her.
breasts.
Twin rose tips.
Smooth curved stones.
Cutting through the river's madness.
Tangles.
I want to throw a silver coin into a wishing well,
want to watch it slip below.
Down. Down.
It rest finally against her skin.
It shimmers.
look at all the wishes around her neck.
She must be a spring.
Wet and inviting.
I want to drink her in my mouth,
want to plunge inside her.
Depths.
Under her waterfall tresses.




Andrew Tipton

Salamanders

My desire is a poem in your mouth:
I anticipate this miracle of myself,
scratching the words, opening the legs
of my tomorrow, licking your heart
with care.

I feel.
It is a morning glory, a story to be
worshipped: I kneel down, I bow.
You sleep in my altar, in every inch
of me.
I feel.

My desire is a waterfall inundating
your hands, howling like a thunder
over your soft rocks of pleasure.
Flowers fall: it would be an unexpected beauty
if our mossy bodies could breath.
-if-

You you you
Salamanders burn under my quilt,
Yes, you are my myth, a creature born
of my fire.
Maybe you are the fire of my fire.
I keep my dream warm as I cuddle my desire,
searing my soul and eyes, heating those moments
washed by the moonlight.

I sigh.
My passion and my conscience struggle together.
A salamander rests on my breast:
I call you you you
and when you read my metaphors
my flames consume me. I die.
But don't believe your eyes.
If you come close,
you won't see me my dearest:
you will see
a Phoenix Rising.

My desire is my deathless inspiration melting
in your tongue.





Karla Bardanza

Sweet Games

The way our eyes catch at the corners.
As we pass.
I love that you are nameless.
An apparition; still of my own design.
I feel your eyes like sunshine on my shoulders.
Do you also feel mine? Gazing.
The way I watch you from adjacent angles.
Darting. Scandalously.
Watch your hips roll away like perfect waves.
Purple dress magnetic sweet spot.
The linger of a smile on your lips.
Falling from a laugh. Still lingering.
Your dark hair, at the shoulders.
Your elegant stride.
Makes my chest thump.
Makes my veins glow.
Still sailing on the feeling of thievery.
Venturing into a beautiful aphrodisiac,
What soft whispers, under the breath,
said in passing.
What thoughts tucked away, hidden beneath appearances.
We stalk each other. Like a sunrise. Slow, growing intensity.

I know our mouths would love to greet each other.
With an embrace.
Accidentally, on the stairs at midnight.
Accidentally, on your balcony - steal a kiss.
I imagine you taste like dark chocolate and petite sirah.
A revelation to the tongue.
My senses howl at the thought of it.
At the thought of you.

Let your irises find mine again tomorrow.






Andrew Tipton