Hands make
contact with the soft skin on the side of her body.
The surface breaks, cream above, weak below.
Collar bones scaffold the slender neck and bear, like a many shapes and shades necklace, the imprints of thumbs and pointers.
On the generous thighs, one with its unique white birthmark, urgent teeth make their presence felt. The wetness on them is not hers alone.
Eyes that light up with laughter are naked with need for peace and quiet and the blue black on her cheek, like midnight ink, nods in vehement assent.
The golden back has a curve running through it. It seldom sees the light of the day. But heels and toes have made themselves at home in that vast expanse.
Arms clasp each other and fingers join similar marks, making for a striking assonance.
The lips are bow shaped. The best use of time and energy in that space. No need for colour, they colour themselves in carmine red, nourished from her own body.
The holy space between her legs is a battleground. Why all this if not for that. There are no visible signs. It's not even that special. But if you care to pause, there amidst the almost surprising delicateness, you might spy a grimace or two. An ache or a few.
This is their special brand of love making. It leaves cuts and bruises and aches and pains, and not of the delicious kind. It can occupy serious space on a trophy shelf of broken bones and stripped off, crushed skin. Of breath caught.
This love making is luxurious. It marks her skin with colours you cannot imagine and that carry dreamy calling cards- magenta, vermillion, indigo, purple, black.
You are appalled. They are enthralled.
You call it physical. They call it poetic.
You say it's wrong. They say only to you.
You say you need help. They say they are.
You say prison. They say bed.
You say separate. They say dead.
You question logic. They counteract with love.
Beating. Love making.
All in a day's work.
The surface breaks, cream above, weak below.
Collar bones scaffold the slender neck and bear, like a many shapes and shades necklace, the imprints of thumbs and pointers.
On the generous thighs, one with its unique white birthmark, urgent teeth make their presence felt. The wetness on them is not hers alone.
Eyes that light up with laughter are naked with need for peace and quiet and the blue black on her cheek, like midnight ink, nods in vehement assent.
The golden back has a curve running through it. It seldom sees the light of the day. But heels and toes have made themselves at home in that vast expanse.
Arms clasp each other and fingers join similar marks, making for a striking assonance.
The lips are bow shaped. The best use of time and energy in that space. No need for colour, they colour themselves in carmine red, nourished from her own body.
The holy space between her legs is a battleground. Why all this if not for that. There are no visible signs. It's not even that special. But if you care to pause, there amidst the almost surprising delicateness, you might spy a grimace or two. An ache or a few.
This is their special brand of love making. It leaves cuts and bruises and aches and pains, and not of the delicious kind. It can occupy serious space on a trophy shelf of broken bones and stripped off, crushed skin. Of breath caught.
This love making is luxurious. It marks her skin with colours you cannot imagine and that carry dreamy calling cards- magenta, vermillion, indigo, purple, black.
You are appalled. They are enthralled.
You call it physical. They call it poetic.
You say it's wrong. They say only to you.
You say you need help. They say they are.
You say prison. They say bed.
You say separate. They say dead.
You question logic. They counteract with love.
Beating. Love making.
All in a day's work.
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