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