The day’s heat lingers

like the hungry stray at the backdoor

waiting out of sight

to overtake the vulnerable.

Condensation from her glass

pools on the table, adding circled scars

to the scars from other

heat-laden nights.

The back of her hand

wipes sweat from a damp brow;

her eyes, closed to the dying sun,

focus inward.

His face, the oasis

in the desert of her existence,

beckons to her

through the haze of memory.

His spearmint breath

washes over her,

wrapping her body in

cooling bliss.

He always tasted of spearmint,

she recalls …

She melts into his arms;

the sweat of his body

commingles with hers,

melding them into one.

The desperation she felt

in the heat of the day

evolves into inspiration

as she welcomes his heat.

She revels in his searing touch

as his fingers map their way

from moist destination

to moist destination.

She pleads for him to stop,

she begs him to continue,

as the passion mounts,

leaving her breathless.

His tongue drinks the rivulets

across her body,

climbs the peaks of her breasts,

the valley of her desire.

She arches her back,

an invitation for the

homecoming she anticipates

will complete her.

He surges forward

and they dance feverishly

in the flames of their need

until sated, spent, consumed.

The telephone rings,

his memory dissolves into the humid air.

She reaches out slowly,

the dampness clinging to her.

His voice calls to her from an army base

under the searing sun.

She cries, surprised there is moisture

left to spare.