Writers
always have the words:
| |
the
letters to spin
the
tales to weave
the
sentences to caress.
|
There
is so much in a word
whispered
or screamed
so
much in a dream
when
it is filled with such sweet imagination
and
the slow senseless seduction
of
your voice, heavy with forbidden temptations.
You
don't even have to be here
in
flesh and blood and form
to
have me grow weak-kneed
and
spread wide open
awaiting
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satisfaction.
Your
words
like
fingers
drift
up
my thighs
across
my breasts
straight
to my lips
and
I bite
right
into your
next
line.
|
Fish
hooked
into
the game
the
game without a name
that
binds us together
in
a stolen moment
so
far removed from forever
that
I need not be reminded
that
it is an illusion
an
elaborate dance of fantasy.
Because
it began
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with
a word and a dance
and
lightening does not
strike
twice
not
even by chance.
|
But
your words carry all
the
electricity I could ever need
undress
me with a sentence
kiss
me with a verse
make
love to me in a stanza.
I'll
return an erotic novel
and
make you climax first.
Physicality
was a stimulant all within its time
but
now I'm into foreplay of the higher mind
Where
my fingers once found your cracks and crevices
and
all the soft spots they chose to linger
I
now want to deliver something quite a bit deeper.
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I
know it's but a word
rough
across my lips
a
whisper scorched by a flame
that
is no one else's shame
if
it moves you
keeps
the rhythm of your breath
if
it crawls right through you
like
my weight upon your chest.
In
my words find nails
to
draw across your skin
find
kiss and caress
and
wonders never seen.
|
You
may not be deep inside my body
but
you're deep inside my soul
thrust
those words deeper, harder still
because
where the actions fail
the
language make me whole.
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