Legs

All that was left of you
when I burrowed from the trap
of your comforter,
sprang upon me
in a moment of playful capture,
was your legs.

They smelled like lotion and vanilla
and the shine of them sent streaks
of reflected ceiling light
toward your framing knees and ankles.

I had fallen from the couch
trying to reconquer the blanket,
and had landed, defeated,
at the alter of your feet.

I love when your legs are freshly shaven,
still juicy from hints of moisturizer;
such a sight for freedmen’s eyes.