The white shirt whispers secrets low,
Of curves and shadows, soft aglow.
A hint of blush, a tender plea,
For lips to find what eyes can't see.
Red paint upon a whispered vow,
Invites a touch, right here and now.
A promise held in crimson bright,
A burning ember in the night.
Dark lines frame a gaze so deep,
A siren's call that lulls to sleep.
A hunger stirs, a wicked game,
Where souls are lost and hearts aflame.
No words exist to paint the sight,
Of fabric clinging, dark and tight.
A silent language, bold and bare,
A challenge whispered on the air.
Her voice, a flame that dances high,
Demands surrender, makes you sigh.
A circus trick, a burning grace,
Leaving ashes in its place.
I knelt, compelled by burning need,
To beg for pain, to plant the seed.
No choice, perhaps, or maybe yes,
To taste the fire, to confess.
