Do you know that marriage is darn sexy.
Have you seen your wife’s buttocks
Grow bigger by the year, like brown gunny sacs
Filled to the brim with husked grains.
The breasts are still sprightly perky like
They could hang an old pair of tea cups
Her hips spread out like Siberia
And the g-string she still wears
Grows on you, just like the vast unmapped areas
That have no chance of being covered.
She will let you spank her
Until the moon becomes two blood oranges
She will fall to your lap, dancing like a sultry tornado
And she will make her lips do wonders
She will pop the wine bottle
And pour the lemonade
And still what is most sexy about her
Is, she will now be bloated around the edges
Age creasing her skin, rocking her muffin top
Loosening her chin and still
She will leave you simply speechless,
How she keeps her secrets and pours them out
All at once. Like when she will buy
A baby doll or a corset on your birthday
Or suddenly drop her garments and go skinny dipping
Or wear a mini skirt with no panties on
Or flaunt her G-string above her hipsters
Like a 20 something.
And there are no inventories to marriage
That’s the best part about it.
Its how you push the boundaries
Waking up to new traditions while keeping
The old ones and still remembering to climb
On each others bodies as often as possible.
Some monkeying around never really hurt anybody.
And my wife will always be my first and only love.
And I look forward to growing old with her
Knowing we will reinvent life at every milestone
Living larger than society dictates.
And life is about reinvention. Of how two people
That know everything about each other,
Invent newer arrangements to let
Newer feelings prosper. The G-string will never
Grow old on my wife and nor will I.
And that thought by itself, is simply beautiful,
Knowing that fat man will never be a pod of vanilla
Nor will missionary sex be.
And in love isn’t it all about the little things.
The apron, the baby doll,
The leopard skin g-string, the glowing condom,
The happy tears, the gait, the skip of a heartbeat
The scrappy notes and post-it notes
The blue pill on my tongue and the clit that becomes my tongue
The little rooms we dust out on Sunday mornings.
And the little words we commit and omit
In pledge and in silence
In love and in love.