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Her hair dances in my pyrite eyes,
her silk frame draped across mine.
Plush lips follow the boulevard
of my vertebrae,
she murmurs invocations of god
against the embossed cross on my back.
I am her religion,
and she worships the scars
ingrained in my skin.
They speak to her fingertips
as nails pirouette over the raised edges.
Imprints of psalms linger
on my wrist,
and her tongue traces the shapes,
quaking my bones until
they crumble onto the sheets.
I love you flows softly from
an ivory barricade
whenever her palms bow
before mountains whose color
invokes nostalgia,
Pinot Noir rapids
tumbling from your crystalline mouth.
 AlambiqueCiel · Sat Jun 19, 2010 @ 06:00am · 1 Comments |
