Fever

(Image: paintingsilove.com)

I never forgot your smell,

or how soft your cheek was;

like tender coconut flesh.

How soft your cheek was,

when I dared to push my lips against it.

 I never forgot how

my back pressed against the wall.

Green, cold, flaky paint.

I remember trying to remember the moment

the hot flush of love against the cold of the wall.

The memory lives, grows, sears.  

It is a fever. You shudder, you sweat. 

You want to lie down, you need to sit up. 

Yes, a fever. A fire that's burning me up.

A fire that won't listen to reason. 

I will be your phoenix, you can be my arsonist.

Scarlet lips to burn you, flushed cheeks to burn you.

Here, inside of me, is a living arsenal.

A veritable, flammable woman;

you will keep alive with flames of longing.

That first spark has grown,

brighter now, bolder now. 

Your lips are under my thumb:

trembling pink flesh. Now wet with wanting, 

now parched in anticipation.

Fan my flames, for I need you, to make it through

this stark and lonely night.

Touch your tongue to mine, quench this longing.

Nay, stay away, lest all turn to ashes.

There is a desperation in this denial. A quiet hunger. 

A spasming want.

I will wait. I will make you want me.

(Co-written with Mahinn Ali Khan @mentalexotica)