When he is away everything’s just a sense of
wrong; indescribable, gritty, un-gettable, blue-grey.
Nothing at dawn seems right; sunset, moonrise,
it’s half past ten, night unfolding her black petals.
Gleaming fangs. She smacks the droplets of sweat
he’d left to bloom in darkness. With the tip of her
tongue she traces a crescent moon, molten ivory
spread in circles, steeped in his smell. Physical
stimulation pounding after her, choking, choking.
She waltzes like a hymn; unabashed. Open.
Her feet speeding through the lowering sky,
shuffling over his body’s firmament, falling,
falling like a shooting star; miserable, triumphant.
She shuts her eyes, desire flaming in ringlets.
He spreads his naked arms, disturbingly intimate,
hot illuminance reaching out from neck, spilling
across his cheeks. Sexy. Her love is an ebullition,
infectious, full-blown rose, prowling in an
erotic fantasy. Revengeful. She keeps him awake
for one thousand nights. He clasps her in moonlight,
mental osculations, sinful breaths. She is a volume
of music; a multihued blur, longing to be windswept.