Ahhh the scent of her
voice

as if sound could be
a perfume

her limbs scattered
all over the unmade bed

like a puppet
whose strings have been cut

or now a starfish
stranded in the rock pool

of these crumpled
sheets

licking her naked
clavicle

with the tip of his
pointed tongue

reciting Éluard to her
proud left ******

"...for you are made...no
fashioned for...

nothing but
love and sleep."

or something such
( it doesn't matter much )

only the poetry
of such kisses.