Artists not Architects

 Nearly a year to the day, 
and it all remains so clear and crisp to me.

The paisley pattern of our floor; the cover finally fitting after so many tries
The thin brown roof; falling in the middle, displaying the fact that we are artists of words, not architects.
Supports brought from every room; stratigically placed and moved by you. 

Warmth as we marvel at our creation from inside.
What little floor space we have, shared between us.
and the heat of sharing that space. Something else. 

The smoke,
as dinner burned because we got caught up in our creation.
Marvelling, Flirting.
Losing ourselves in something neither of us planned.
Or would have expected.
Or were prepared for.

The sound of your music fills the room.
I relax, and then complain.
You take the bait, then my hand as you lead me to my bed.
From our little piece of Heaven, to new found territories. 
To lines we never thought we'd cross.

Your hands on me feels so familiar
as you make up for the past. 
The way your nails cut and bled me
the night I saw you last.

My hands find your ankles, while yours find my kinks
and as you work them out, I react. Much to your enjoyment.
As you finish, your hands remain on my skin. 
Still tingling from your touch.

My skin knows what the rest of me will soon discover.
That your touch, will become crucial.
That your voice, will forever send shivers down my spine.

I can still feel you, looking at the photo from that day
Legs of faded denim emerging from our little lean-to.

It's hard to believe what came from that day.