Lips to lips, smooth as satin,
squash against teeth;
tentative tongues touch and retreat.
Hands cup and curl on earlobes, creep
to cradle napes of necks;
that feeling spirals upwards like smoke.
Eye to eye: should they be closed?
Hair is stroked, soft curls spring
under searching fingers.
—innocence and sunshine.
not beneath blankets
but on the sofa.
Mum and Dad are out.
Polly Robinson © 2014