His lips. His lips launching a million imagined kisses
dark silk forming the veil forever falling in his eyes
teasing me with the desire to touch it...
I restrain my wanton lust.
The voice of seduction, sly and warm
plays upon my ears
making my heart a triphammer...
his soul more demonic than the angel portrayed.
The lushness of his being,
velvet and steel, gossamer and marble,
He is the god of my fevered dreams.
The heat of his skin so close to my own
his aura blistering mine
with white-hot indifference
He knows well the effect he has on me
and does everything to weaken me,
to further his lovely game.
More wood for the witching burn.
His hands on my shoulders, he compels me
to the ground before him,
before the god I worship in dreams
only to tease me into begging
for the chance to breathe him in,
to absorb the power he wields.
Beloved soft-mouthed savage
hands wound in my hair
the temple of my most precious deity
but a breath away
Shudders wrack my body
as he forces the god between grateful lips
slowly, painfully answering my prayers...
my whole being opens to him.
Tears rain on conjoined flesh
soft cries echo from gray walls
Once, twice...thrice he moans
eyes close and saintly calm returns to me
The joan of arc fire quiet again.
copyright muse/2001
