Mystery

Mystery

That we came together was impossible to predict - a mystery.
How it was to develop was something of which we had no inkling.
Another day we might not have met at all.
Nevertheless we met – we chatted about things, about poetry,
knowing at first little about each other’s pechant for writing,
yet soon realising that we had this in common.
Oh yes, I was flattered by her compliments when she read my sonnets -
up until then I had thought them amateurish and crude;
she praised them highly – and I blushed.
(When did we begin to edge towards intimacy?
either one of us could have said goodbye and disappeared
except that I wanted to compliment her on her writing too.)
Truthfully I told of my excitement at the playful eroticism of her words,
knowing at first nothing of where this would lead,
and slowly, slowly, unknowingly we led each other down the delightful path.
Rhyme by rhyme, sonnet by sonnet, compliment by compliment
ecstasy drew ever closer.
Never was a kiss more sweet
for although unexpected, it was all the sweeter for that!
Oh the taste of the soft skin of her neck;
rose-coloured marks of love on her wonderful breasts after my caresses,
arousal, mutual arousal, as we merged into each other,
loving hardness against softness
only hoping to prolong and prolong,
velvet lips coaxing the hardness to greater hardness,
eager tongue encircling, probing, loving;
lying above her to slide, to glide, inwards and inwards,
yes, feeling her pulsate as I pulsate,
sharing our hot, hot rivers of love,
holding each other in the rapture of our sharing,
and me, wondering how and wondering why, and wondering at her;
giving thanks for the mystery of my new lover.