I can imagine staircases already
From her legs up,
The sassy strut divine
     Of deities descending,

Her curvatures, delight,
Carefully cascading, lather me
As hands on her hands, as fingers,
     Or *****, my spirit.

I am nowhere near my mind
Within her mind,
The clauses of her mind, this flower.
     O her oblivious flower, opened, bare and all.

I can hear it all already, all,
Her steps deceptive,
The pleasant cries and onomatopoeias,
     A princess or a pheasant somewhere,
     Surrendering, the grin
          Of suffering.

I can sense it, feel it, peal it from our canvasses,
Which were carcasses for so long, taste it,
O sweet molasses,
     Which intimacies were hers,
          Were mine.

We're mine alone.*

© 2015 J.S.P.