60 degrees

By Amy C. Witt

It’s 60 degrees and I look over at you, smiling at me.
Your smile, that instantly makes me want to caress you.
The sun is glistening off your checks as I grab your face and kiss your whiskers.
Quickly,  I bite your lip.
Your touch is soft and delicate
As I plant my heavy red lips on yours.
With dust falling between our kiss
My eyes smile as I admire yours
Yours, the kindest sweetest eyes with a sharp rugged squint.
Your smile widens as I nestle your neck with my face.
You run your fingers through my hair and grab a little tighter for a tease.
The young bay you’re riding moves to the left as you pull away
Laughing, you say something funny as you school on your horse lightly.
You intoxicate me in such a way
One, in which I could never explain.
It’s 60 degrees, and you’re still smiling at me.