I am her panties.
I have clung to her hips like a worshipper
and knelt in the dark between her thighs.
I have drunk her sweat
until the salt burned my threads,
and I have learned her rhythm
how she sighs before she sins.
I have been the altar for her midnight prayers,
the veil for the tremor of her flesh
when the moon pressed its cold kiss there.
I have swallowed the bite of his teeth,
tasted the copper of his hunger,
and carried the scent of nights
she will deny with her lips
but never with her body.
I am the silk that trembled
when her fingers shook,
the lace that remembers more
than her mouth will speak.
And if you dare press me to your ear,
I will tell you
how she laughed when she came,
how she wept when she wanted more,
and how I still ache for her skin.