Shoot it if it rhymes

Steam

A gust of hot shower,

like the first June drops of rain.

In the shower stall, mist and breath merge
like tongues seeking lust-bubbles.

A jaw clamps a shoulder, raising alarm

on the soap-stream sliding down from the neck.

A hand
- opening, closing, tracing, moving -
trails down a goose-bump, then cups.

On a lone soap-dome, a tiny rainbow bursts.
Its ghost slithers down the chin, the neck;
rests in a tiny hollow, gets split by a nestling hair.

Firm softness pulses to the rising rhythm
of hearts' beats.
A voyaging shampoo-drop snuggles
into a navel.

Higher above, an eyelash trembles.
A word, unsure and unchristened,
reflects on a sigh, retreats.
A loofah, aided by trembling fingers,

finds a mate in a valley.

Heat, having left the shower, reaches for the sinews.
A tiny muscle twitches on a glistening calf.
A wandering nail resurrects
a forgotten pore.

On the floor, wetnesses meet in slippery silence.