White House

Her hand draped languidly 
across the bedspread.
Her subtlety sinking deep
into the down.

And her downy legs 
soft, resting 
against my thigh,
like a ship rocking at a dock.

Green means go.
The trees blossomed
out the window,
and we both wondered
silently,
how we live so many months
each year without leaves.
Without the verdant breath across
our cheeks.

We didn't have to settle tonight,
and crawled like 
defeated beasts
underneath the heavy 
comforter and starchy sheets,
overturned and tucked hotel-style
by an elusive set of maids.

Her warm breath drew across
my face like
a wind along the Sahara,
across the high dry points
of Africa,
across the low and shimmering
Las Vegas salt flats.

Ankles entwined like
lusting grapevines
we grew one thousand years
in the space of
four hours,
heavy with damp breath
and flung limbs
in sedative sleep.

She sang out bold melodies
in her dreams,
that I was privy to
in these husky hours
of the morning,
stretching themselves awake
one by one.

I whispered slow
responses into her waiting
ears, a soft aural kiss
into her consciousness,
hiding deep somewhere beyond me.

She was an island unto herself,
and I took six ships to get there.
And one each a gem left behind,
a swishing of skirts
and sun.
A tinkling of laughter
like a great clatter of silver
flatware against champagne flutes.

A few were scattered, empty
and longing across her wide 
white room, an expanse of herself.
Our skin touched and stuck slightly
with the sweat of sleep
and waking nightmares.
And I worried about her 
hired help and what that 
really meant,
and why I was here
in her downy white bed
laced with lavender
and beechwood.

Instead, her arm reached
up across her face to block out
the invisible light of the coming dawn,
and she mumbled
and murmured
reassurances towards me,
warm sea breezes
across her private life,
her estate of herself

without me.