It looks like hot wax when it comes on to you, warm, not
scalding erupting from my candle onto your leg or chest or lips, not sweet the
way honey might seem, just what explodes out of me, each stroke bringing me
closer to it, until when all arrives, unstoppable, a wax that takes shape on
every place it lands, a bit on your lips, which I watch you lick, and as
volatile as a volcano, spreading it wherever I ca, on leg or chest or lips, the
rhythm of moving hips, the results of unconscionable passion I feel, even now,
even all this time later, like wax scalding in a way that does not cause pain,
the pleasure so intense I ache to repeat it often and often do in dreams
No comments:
Post a Comment