This is not cold,
but a hot breathy kiss on my body and soul.
Melting my wits.
Preparing to soften and harden what fits.
This is not scorn,
but a trick of your mouth for my lust to be born.
Words of mock dirt,
which untie a secret and never do hurt.
This is not anger,
but a longing to fall from the heights of this rigor.
Wanting to drop,
into bliss on your skin and never to stop.
This is not pain,
but the rise of wet honey which runs through my veins.
A taste by your flesh,
and spilled by the push of the loveliest quest.
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