The River


This was the rainy season
when right and wrong didn't matter anymore.
Do you know why someone cannot step into the same river twice?
Because it's always moving. Like blood in the veins of the hunter;
the masculine one fueled by thoughts of her.
She was the goodness of things to come,
soft and feminine—as only she could be.
He always traveled the river but that day was different.
Suddenly there she was--every thought he ever had.
When their boats collided she said, “Pardon me.”
After hours of speaking without words
she grasped his hand leading him back to the shore.
They lowered to welcoming sand using each other's breath for life.
Tenderly, he turned her around and around.
Her love tasted as could only fresh honey.
She purred in lustful, musical tones crying aloud,
pleading for him to give more.
He saw the sky as a sea of swirling colors;
a kaleidoscope blending the past and the present
into a future worth waiting for.
She was on earth to please him and he for her.
Because that's all that mattered, surely fair to say.
She was the escalation from what was to what could be.
When the sun rose she was gone, leaving him adrift.
Now he's back on the river,
yearning to visualize the girl whose captivating green eyes
once sparkled and shined his way.

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