It comes back
each time I close my eyes,
Her lips poised on the rim of a wine glass,
Her long fingers gripping the stem,
She having hold of something deep inside me,
Leaving me to guess what happens next,
A slow stroke as her touch
touches already steamed glass
I stare at her as if through fog,
Inebriated not on the wine we drink
But the reflection in her deep,
dark, terrifying eyes,
All leads up to them,
above the finger that clutch
(the glass, my throat, my heart),
Above the lips that sip not wine, but me,
Eyes staring back at me
Full of promise,
Full of expectations of pain
And pleasure
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