The bedsheets still carry
his warm, dark musk
and last night haunts your nerves
Light developed into heat,
woven from time and susorrous
Revelations yet revealed.
His fingers sliding
Beneath your clothes
His mouth, hot and rough
Against your ear
His voice wanders the house
A rough, animal thing
Lilting and gentle
When he’s inclined,
But with you,
He shows the beast within him
Trusting to your strength,
As you trust his.
The tea is still too hot
To drink
But if you were
To raise the cup to your lips
Your own heat
Would surpass what
Sits in the cup.
MB Blissett 