If only

from out of the aching

of this visceral inflammation

I might be reborn

on the shores of your lips –

cast like a spell

in whispered ponderings of awakening, and

 

be worn upon your sleeve

before partaking of skin

ripe for the taking

and delving deeply under it, and

 

be the bridge that crosses

into the taboo

where risk becomes exquisite and

your incarcerated secrets are freed, and

 

be the temptress

of scalding pleasure

and the sorceress of scathing pain

only to slather your rawness

with a richly emollient brew, and

 

be the driest sauvignon

to quench your parched soul

and stagger the indignation of the righteous,

 

and mostly

 

be the one to slake your desire,

then create your longing for more.

 

This is my divine need.

 

© 2008