it is not her lips or hips I crave
when I wake up sometimes in the dark
nor the taste of her
on my fingertips
that I have plunged
into her most sacred places
though in truth I still crave at all
like a starving man craves the memory
of a long gone meal,
painting her before
me
laying her out like a
Thanksgiving dinner
devouring her again
and again
though I still wake
up hungry
wake up wishing the
wish in me was real
aching to taste it now as I did then
my fingers exploring the whole landscape
until I know every inch of it
and tease myself with
it
day and night and day again
No comments:
Post a Comment