To May, the Month of Unfurling
To May, the Month of Unfurling
I. Garden in Rain
May, you arrive as a sigh between showers.
Your wet hair clings to your neck like a lover's fingers. I watch from the kitchen window. The azaleas bow under your touch as if receiving benediction.
You bend to pluck a weed. Your spine curves like a question I’ve carried for years. *La beauté est dans le détail*— in the droplets caught in your eyelashes, in the soil beneath your thumbnail.
The garden drinks the rain. We drink each other’s silence across the damp distance. Your shoulders tense when thunder rumbles—a small tremor I feel in my own bones.
II. Threshold
The screen door slams. You stand dripping on the welcome mat. Mud on your boots. Rain in your hair.
I bring a towel. You shrug off your coat. Water pools at your feet. *Je t’attends* since dawn.
Your fingers brush mine as I reach for your sleeve. A current passes between us—wordless as the downpour on the roof.
III. Bath Drawn
Steam rises from the tub. Candles flicker on the ledge. You test the water with your wrist.
*Comme ceci*— you say, adjusting the tap. I watch the muscles shift beneath your skin as you bend.
The room fills with the scent of lavender and something darker. Something that lives beneath your clothes.
You step into the water. Your body disappears beneath the surface. A pale island of knees breaks the stillness.
IV. Candlelight
Flame dances in the draft. Your face half- shadowed. Half- revealed. I trace the line of your jaw with my eyes.
The water ripples as you shift. Your breath catches. *Je te veux*— the words hang unspoken between the tiles.
You lean back. Your hair spreads like ink across the porcelain. I ache to map each freckle on your shoulders.
The air thickens. Somewhere a faucet drips. We measure time in heartbeats and candle-lengths.
V. Unspoken
Your hand rests on the tub’s edge. I cover it with my own. Your knuckles tense then soften. *Doux comme* *la pluie*—your skin against mine.
Water laps at the curve of your breasts. I follow a droplet’s path down your sternum with my gaze.
The room shrinks to the space between our bodies. To the damp heat of your breath on my neck.
VI. Crescendo
Your lips part. A sigh escapes. *Viens*—you whisper, and the world contracts to the sound.
I kneel beside the tub. Your fingers tangle in my hair. Pull me closer. Your mouth finds mine— wet and urgent.
Water sloshes over the rim. Candles gutter. Our shadows merge on the wall. I taste lavender on your tongue. Taste the rain you brought in from the garden.
VII. After
The storm passes. Water cools in the tub. You rise— dripping and flushed. I wrap you in a towel. Your teeth chatter against my collar- bone. *Toujours*— I murmur into your damp hair.
Moonlight stripes the floor through the window. We leave wet foot- prints across the tiles. The house settles around us. The garden glistens outside. May’s bloom deepens in the dark.
I. Garden in Rain
May, you arrive as a sigh between showers.
Your wet hair clings to your neck like a lover's fingers. I watch from the kitchen window. The azaleas bow under your touch as if receiving benediction.
You bend to pluck a weed. Your spine curves like a question I’ve carried for years. *La beauté est dans le détail*— in the droplets caught in your eyelashes, in the soil beneath your thumbnail.
The garden drinks the rain. We drink each other’s silence across the damp distance. Your shoulders tense when thunder rumbles—a small tremor I feel in my own bones.
II. Threshold
The screen door slams. You stand dripping on the welcome mat. Mud on your boots. Rain in your hair.
I bring a towel. You shrug off your coat. Water pools at your feet. *Je t’attends* since dawn.
Your fingers brush mine as I reach for your sleeve. A current passes between us—wordless as the downpour on the roof.
III. Bath Drawn
Steam rises from the tub. Candles flicker on the ledge. You test the water with your wrist.
*Comme ceci*— you say, adjusting the tap. I watch the muscles shift beneath your skin as you bend.
The room fills with the scent of lavender and something darker. Something that lives beneath your clothes.
You step into the water. Your body disappears beneath the surface. A pale island of knees breaks the stillness.
IV. Candlelight
Flame dances in the draft. Your face half- shadowed. Half- revealed. I trace the line of your jaw with my eyes.
The water ripples as you shift. Your breath catches. *Je te veux*— the words hang unspoken between the tiles.
You lean back. Your hair spreads like ink across the porcelain. I ache to map each freckle on your shoulders.
The air thickens. Somewhere a faucet drips. We measure time in heartbeats and candle-lengths.
V. Unspoken
Your hand rests on the tub’s edge. I cover it with my own. Your knuckles tense then soften. *Doux comme* *la pluie*—your skin against mine.
Water laps at the curve of your breasts. I follow a droplet’s path down your sternum with my gaze.
The room shrinks to the space between our bodies. To the damp heat of your breath on my neck.
VI. Crescendo
Your lips part. A sigh escapes. *Viens*—you whisper, and the world contracts to the sound.
I kneel beside the tub. Your fingers tangle in my hair. Pull me closer. Your mouth finds mine— wet and urgent.
Water sloshes over the rim. Candles gutter. Our shadows merge on the wall. I taste lavender on your tongue. Taste the rain you brought in from the garden.
VII. After
The storm passes. Water cools in the tub. You rise— dripping and flushed. I wrap you in a towel. Your teeth chatter against my collar- bone. *Toujours*— I murmur into your damp hair.
Moonlight stripes the floor through the window. We leave wet foot- prints across the tiles. The house settles around us. The garden glistens outside. May’s bloom deepens in the dark.