Drummer Boy [rare]

Latin jazz music for my soul.

Like bossanova,
we move together
to a samba,
and the colours of the leaves change
and we don’t take note.

Unsteady
as the crashing beat of waves on a rocky shore,
we chat,
and my fantasies are that you be the sand
that lazily, sexily
sticks to my skin
in a salty, passionate state.

Your sensual touch caresses my skin
like an erratic,
unpredictable melody
massaging my ear drum.

You touch my face and I cringe
at the thought of your finger tips’ departure.
You rap the side of my chin,
behind my ear
with persuasive percussion.

My skin feels softer under your touch,
my heart and head lighter,
and I wonder
if your mind wanders
as wildly and whispily
as your warm breath
on my ear lobes.

Your palm on the back of my neck,
fingers through the hair at my nape,
fires like rhumba,
hips swaying,
my skirt swishing from side to side,
following your right hand’s lead.

The heart in your masculinity
pounds a familiar rhythm
but the wetness of your tongue
on my breast
throws me,
and I lose my footing.

I trip and fall
into the groove between
your chest and shoulder
cheek finding home
scent engulfing me
and I get lost in the rhythm of your thoughts.

And you don’t come to my rescue.

Mistaking my erraticism for eroticism,
our music turns mechanical.
But nothing can drown your driving drum beat.
It pulses subtly under every melody.

Perhaps you drum to see me dance.
Perhaps you drum upon experiencing my dancing.
Perhaps you press the heel of your palm
into my life
out of pity.

And when I see the leaves fall
and change colour,
I imagine that you pull me taught
and beat my heart
once again.