Every time you die,
you take a little
of me with you on
your way to heaven.

Bestial satisfaction,
wet, red lines the grid
mapping a path to treasure:
your spine, your breasts...

(Oh, what treasures have
I to gain from thee.
Such tender spoils.

Every time is a
new exploration;
familiar waters
remain uncharted.)

So soft the throat:
the harder I squeeze,
the more intense
your muffled cries.

And with release
you die,
taking me along.

~Dedicated to E.R.E.

06/20/2005

Posted on 06/21/2005
Copyright © 2025 T.J. Carver