Now The Answers Will Come
A TASTE OF HONEY
Titillate
Quiet fingers fondle sleeping cheek
Fires placid pulse pumps rapid pace
Alive
Revive me keep me rising up.
Titillate
Breathing pulsing sultry summer heat
Melts brine to beads then molten streams
Afire
Dire search for nectar’s lair.
Robusto surrenders to first flame casts its cloud to its breeze puff puff suck it down ‘tween my fingers take it down fire in the belly keep on fannin’ fight its fade light its fire hour later feel the shade.
Passion, is this it,
A tingle
Where ne’r was one?
Passion, is this it,
Flesh touch
Against the silk?
Passion, is this it,
Restless nights
Steals slumber’s bed?
Passion, is this it,
Heart yells,
Faster your pursuit?
Passion, is this it,
Knowing anger
Refuse contain it?
Passion, is this it,
What’s felt
When ’tis not given?
She forced her eyes away in subtle defiance. She wouldn’t be complicit in their malefactions — her possessions strewn across the floor, an inventory now ensuing, items deemed useless, dismissed as junk. What was left they twisted, cajoled, compressed and all done with no shortage of wild contortions, forced it fit into a few small boxes.
She could not cry for what she couldn’t see, but her stomach knew, for it was wrenched and knotted, a familiar plague of late for which she could find no remedy in a bottle or a can.