When You Told Me No One Has Ever Fantasized About Your Legs Before

I think a lot about your legs.

How they fold in like 
a broken chair and 
extend out toward me 
like they are 
reaching for heaven.

The way they move
about my room and 
the way the sun light 
sprinkles 
and 
sparkles 
on them.

I think of how they 
unknowingly strike 
against each other 
like a lazy violin and bow.

When my hands 
run down them, 
how the smooth of them 
electrifies my fingertips.

You say, 
no one has ever
fantasized about them before.

They were too busy 
on your eyes, 
the dimples that 
pierce your lower back, 
the shadow your figure makes 
on their dorm room wall.

But it was those legs that 
brought you to me,
at a lonely coffee shop 
midday in the valley.

Long before I knew what 
those legs would mean,
wrapped around my hips 
in the earliest of morning.

Your calves waltzing out 
the back door 
and into your car,
returning to me 
with a skip in its step, 
one sweet limb kicking back 
when my lips 
welcome you home.