I do believe I can feel it
Again at last
That slow trickle of words.
Pooling at the back of my skull
Where it hinges with the spine,
Welling up from below.
The upturned corner of a mouth.
The twinkle in an eye.
The slow ache of a lightly bitten lip…
So often inspiration doesn’t strike
Glides into the room
In a mist of moist matcha steam,
Traces her fingers up my spine,
Smooths out the shirt across my shoulders
And gently brushes my hair back
As she leans in
For a gentle kiss.