The sultry evening falls like the silk upon my shoulders
I kiss your throat as you write to your mother
It conflicts you, does it not?
The memory of her weeping and the very act of your hands
One clutching your pen, the other gliding over the inside of my thigh
Both ever so foolishly stained in the purest of black
It certainly conflicts me, my love, for all my tender heart longs for is this:
Stain me
Grip my hair, press me harder onto your lap, blacken me
Let me see the sweetest stars—
And may they be sweeter than the relish of raspberries upon my mouth
Write to your mother about me
I shall kiss you for it
And thus, as we clasp hands dreamily, become your muse
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC
The sultry evening falls like the silk upon my shoulders
I kiss your throat as you write to your mother
It conflicts you, does it not?
The memory of her weeping and the very act of your hands
One clutching your pen, the other gliding over the inside of my thigh
Both ever so foolishly stained in the purest of black
It certainly conflicts me, my love, for all my tender heart longs for is this:
Stain me
Grip my hair, press me harder onto your lap, blacken me
Let me see the sweetest stars—
And may they be sweeter than the relish of raspberries upon my mouth
Write to your mother about me
I shall kiss you for it
And thus, as we clasp hands dreamily, become your muse
