Salsa Fresca

Love Poetry, Poetry

Her shoulder blades
dance together
as she slices a tomato.

I sit at the table
tapping my spoon to my heart beat.

Click, click.
Click, click.

Her hips sway as salt, pepper, and cilantro
meet diced tomatoes, onions, and peppers.

Click, click, click, click

The small of her back arches as
she struggles to squeeze a lemon
the way it does when I run my hand down her spine.

Clickclick, clickclick.

The tops of her shoulders become glazed with juice,
glistening,
like those moments after our late nights
in July.

Clickclickclickclickclickclick.

Suddenly,
she stops
turns around
and frowns
Stop.

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