by Quinlan L Gibson
I think of you more often than I should.
A contorted flashback of flesh and open eyes.
Glistening sweat and quaking thighs traced with breath and craving.
Right time, right place the face to face ignited.
Embers burn, fingertips yearn for distance and trophy.
Existence stops within the hotel room; only heat moves within.
Fidelity wears a thick shade of jealousy and an evil grin.
Inside entangled vices shatter, fetish gathers, sin lathers.
Building from the catch to the release, a lease on the night.
Evident sleight, captive and causal; arousal aromas this page,
setting the stage for the next encounter
Author's Note: Room 228
Posted on 09/12/2017
Copyright © 2017 Quinlan L Gibson