For my birthday, he cooked dinner.
Portabello mushroom ravioli
in a cream tomato sauce.
He set a plateful before me,
poured us more wine
and from across the table
watched me eat.
I mouthed a forkful,
embarrassed at ruining the presentation
but hungry for what he has set before me.
He watched my mouth work the firm
pasta with dripping sauce;
I watched him sip his wine,
the curve of his lip pressing against the glass.
I stopped, for in mouth
as he moved next to me.
I removed the fork, licked my lips --
my hunger shifted from stomach
to eyes.
I cut a ravioli in half
and offered it to his lips.
With an eyebrow raised, he accepted --
grasped it with his teeth,
his tongue slipping underneath.
He chewed and grinned.
Some sauce remained
on the corner of his mouth,
I wiped it away with my thumb
then held his face in my hand --
He was mine, all mine.
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