of my reverent whip—
how her ass is addicted
to the back of my hand,
how roses bloom pink near her
pussy in the shape of my palms.
This is where we get all our
energy; the tip of the flail is the
orbit of everything,
our skin revolves in tight ellipses
around leather and the ecstasy of mutual captivities.
She whispered her confession
to the tip of my whip,
a leather thong between her ass, to
spread her cheeks apart
so that we could pluck the petals there,
and sip the honey—
lick the spurts of pollen that clings
to the back of her throat, in dribbles
in drips,
in perfect pardons.
0 comments:
Post a Comment