Friday, February 17, 2012

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)

1 comment:

miffalicious said...

How absolutely brilliant!!! x