Dedicated to the muse known as "White Sunday", but not of the White Sunday series of poems.
like well earned sweat:
wet.
we set to settle for nothing short of radiance
in the heat of our mutually assured seduction.
penetrate my consciousness and impale me
on your soul, as deep as you can get.
feral,
wrap your legs and lock me in, in a skin we twin
and thin membranes cannot hold back what we are:
a sanctity of desire
fire burning away the
grey
until all that is left is white hot flesh and
pink,
solferino cravings, engravings on memory in sound and fury,
the jury of our own needs, bleeding the
taste
of jasmine.
I want to feel you,
heal you,
peel you and
conceal you
from all the pain but this:
that we are ephemeral
and all that passes in this heated moment will pass,
glass smooth water to hide the crest of crashing waves
that radiate from within you to
capture
my flesh and fluid.
druidic rituals of fertility and transition,
pagan
perfection
as you take possession of my
soul
and my erection,
laying your claim in a passionate frame and flame
that
licks
away the impurities
in the forge of Aphrodite.
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