Part one of He on a Sunday

It’s the way your weighty silver pen balances on the edge
of this dark grey sofa,
reminding me of your Sunday crossword in that spot
just moments before
on this Sunday morning.

I sit in this moment watching you gain small victories
over the NY Times,
word
by
word.
Puzzling something must live on page and you shake your head
turn up one corner of perfect mouth raising cheek on cheekbone
creating tantalizing smirk.

Glasses.
Sexy.
Unshaven sharp manly jaw lines with salt and pepper I will put on my table any day.
Sexier.
Intelligence oozing from He,
as He just be.
Sexiest.

You do the crossword and my thighs get wet. Rain.
Darling, you were made for me.  

Crossword Sunday you creates silent prayer me, begging god softly
for many more Sunday Morning Afters
as We.
My lover's prayer is not spoken. Just is.
Prayer that becomes need. Must breath.
I beg with faith. Inhale.
I thank with relief. Exhale.
I allow the thing to flow.

You came to me across the curve of the planet over stretches of land  
in short time between one moon and the next.
The next.
The next thing I knew...

Kiss from the taxi before I ever stepped out
door not closed and bags sitting on back seat
our lips meet and part
and meet
we move feet
to rhythms of city sidewalk heartbeat praying silent
let this flow like rain.