by Elliott Bell
You may not enter my palace of mist.
I reserve for myself the sweet lemongrass kiss
Permeating the air, the cloud of citrus.
Soft slipping soles embrace,
Pink and curling, the rained-on rug.
I breathe deep the hinted scent,
The trace of lemon on dripping locks.
Fingers cling to the nape of my neck,
Weeping exploratory rivulets,
Winding their way down my spine,
Seeking a path over what is mine.
No need for mirrors or critical eyes,
Just lay down with my mind untied,
Breathe in the space while asking why,
An echo is all I receive in reply.
No, you may not enter this space.
The palace of mist is a private place,
And I reign supreme with softened fingers,
For just as long as the mist lingers.