the tendrils of evening have not gone
they are shadow puppets on a
wall that can breathe
they are fingers that taste the paint
soft & round like his body
smaller than mine but strong.
where i am bountiful he subtracts
metered in the most delicate way
white follicles that slope between his thighs.
i could pluck his cells like a violin
with my tongue,
drink from the pores of his lower back.
to devour his unwashed skin
would still not be enough.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s