fifteen minutes bleeding/till the end
of the world. and it's been forty-seven
minutes, give or take a few
since you turned onto your side
& laid that treacherous head upon
my lap.

my hand keeps pulling back; keeps straying
down to stroke your hair. the
smoothness that attracts me/impacts me/
distracts me. slipping from from scalp
to trace the curve of unshaven
cheek. it scratches and
leaves me burning.

you are fleshed Temptation;
your tongue snakes over flesh and I am
rampant, running madly; dripping sweat
and desperately in need of
new underwear.

tongue gives way to teeth and I shift;
slightly, just to pull away. to save
my sanity; my dignity? a shiver
from my head - to toes, and the current
is electric. I could power half this city
on the sparks from out your finger
tips.

your position changes slightly.
you shift yourself an inch (or three)
closer than you've been since
March, or maybe April, and the scratch of
unshaved cheekbone brushes with a
seductive taunt across my shoulder. I
am losing this game; playing Devil's
Advocate as I shift once more: away.

fingers splayed across my thigh; second
hand slides down my back. the serpent
come to Eve in Eden's gardens - driving me
to cause the fall of man; or something akin
to that. you tell me that I try, on my own to
make men fall. I respond, and tell you that
I've still a way to go until success.

A smirk; a quirky smile; eyes meet
caught in the rear-view mirror of my car
and everything falls back to you;
& fingers on my spine
& my hand splayed 'cross your chest
and trailing fingers down to taunt &
tease & tempt & start this game

that will not end.

09/13/2004

Posted on 09/14/2004
Copyright © 2024 Erin Werle