The Visitor


There is laughter around his eyes,
a sense of mirth unwise
though he doesn't know it yet -
he has freshness on his side -
not yet tied, or tired, or scored inside,
his hands are placid
muscles tried and taut, thighs
serene and insolently crossed.

A world of air and mountains
beckons - 
all trails gold, 
all experiences unsoiled,  
I wish him well
on his cycle through the world
and all kind breezes at his back.


She grasped a handful of his jumper 
as he left - compulsive touch that
quick, rough, bunch and rasp
of wool, of hardness and the man
impacting on soft skin
scratched and pulled back in.
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