The orange hoop rattled its way around
Her perfect, thrusting hips, bouncing on the
Pooch of her stomach, keeping its balance
In the waist of my lover; my Ajah.
The color had faded from the surface
Of both, my woman and her precious toy;
time had past for each, without seeing day,
and time would pass with many days alone.
The strangely perfect motion of my beau,
With the passive spin of the imperfect
hoop, left borrowed wonders on the surface;
Which is more passive? They are both aloof.