Arlene Corwin Poetry

He grabs my breast.

Just out of love

I touch his balls or dick or chest.

Just out of love there is no sex,

No heat, no passion, ecstasy,

Just passing touches,

Grabbings mild,

Biggles giggles

Childish-smiled;

Unplanned;

A frilly Wonderland.

His hand, my hand allowed a freedom

Without fear or looking forward:

No anxiety untoward: no

-I’ve a headache, dear.

-I’ve got to come.

-Too fast.

-Go slow.

-Right there.

-No here.

None of the forcing, so exhausting,

Stress producing

Taking,

Faking,

Digging into time above,

Not necessarily from love above.

When out of love I squeeze his thigh,

There’s nothing that I want.

It’s milk; it’s silk.

It makes me high – this passing by.

It is a statement made from joy.

This is a loving built on liking,

Built on leisure,

Equal to the nicest pleasure;

This is the fine, sunshine of body.

Love Relationships; Circling Round Eros;

Arlene Corwin