sunday, before morning.

I sat there, Stella in hand...
you looked at me,

eyes full of religion.

You stroked my hand beneath the table
as you exchanged plesantries with the floor manager,
you stroked the top of my hand,
traced my fingers,
my wrist

releasing a tender femininity
light like dawn breeze
lifting [me] off the ocean
I closed my eyes.

I closed my eyes
and tasted the salt of your mouth