slipping down…

I’m working on a few short stories but none of them are ready to be posted. So here’s some poetry instead. I’ll be posting poems from time to time. I’ll try and keep it to a minimum. My poetry tends to be a bit on the emo side, lol.

slipping…
slipping…
slipping down into fantasies again
the dark circles around my eyes
tell my secret
they tell of many nights
where i rest but don’t sleep
no, i don’t sleep
i only rest
because the moment my eyes close
i am tortured by your caress
or at least
where your caress should be
would be
could be
if only….
the memory of a dream
of your hand
and the trail of awakened nerves
where it had been
sweet torture
such lovely pain
i welcome it each night
instead of sleep
i rest…again

Sleek and Tawny…

She’s lost all those pieces of her that were pretty.
Her shine and nubile beauty wore off long ago,
rubbed off…rubbed raw by men.
She’s nothing sweet anymore
She’s something feral
Something wild
Sleek and tawny
un animal
Something insatiable
Something constantly in search of something to devour
Someone to devour
She sees her prey and when he passes her way
the scent of him enlivens her.
She pursues him because in this moment
he is what she needs, what she hungers for.
That tender morsel she draws across her teeth in ravenous passion.
But when her passion is spent she remains discontent,
until a hint of some other succulent scent
rattles her cage.

MfM- Flowers

This is my first contribution to MicroFantasy Monday.

The weekend is coming to an end. They’ve spent one day and two nights exploring the fantasies that they only spoke of in whispers. Tonight she would have to go home; back to her other life, and he would return to those boring and mundane tasks of his every day existence. Neither of them wanted to talk about it. They didn’t want to break the spell. So instead the lay quietly, brown eyes staring into brown eyes as he traces the contours of her waist and hips with his fingertips.

“If I had the money…” she says softly. “I would tattoo my entire body with flowers, birdies and pretty quotes.”

He chuckles, a furrow of concern between his brows. “Birds?” he questions.

“Yes, birds. What’s wrong with birds?” she asks.

“Well, I once heard…” he says as he reaches into the night table drawer to retrieve a black sharpie marker. “That people who have a thing for birds are slightly nutty.”

Her eyebrow lifts in question. “So you think I’m nutty?”

“Yes,” he says in a matter of fact way as he uses his teeth to remove the lid from the sharpie. “But only in the most sexy and interesting way,” he adds after spitting the top out.

She scoffs rolling her eyes as he caresses the flair of her hip.“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to cover you with beautiful flowers.” He tucks his tongue in the corner of his mouth. His face is the picture of concentration as he creates petals and stems and leaves. “There!” he announces triumphantly when he is done. He blows on his artwork to dry the ink, making goose bumps rise on her skin. She looks at his handiwork; a slightly lopsided bouquet of daises.

“I wouldn’t have chosen daisies. Daisies aren’t really my style.”

He frowned. “You’re right. You’re far too exotic for that…but alas…it’s the only flower I can draw. However…” He kisses her shoulder and gently coaxes her onto her back. “I am a poet so I do possess a plethora of pretty quotes.” Right above her heart he touches the marker to her skin and he scrawls out a few words. Again he gently blows on her skin to dry the ink.

“What does it say?” she asks.

“Your skin is a lovely place to live and die…” he whispers. His brown eyes meet her brown eyes as she lets her fingers tickle across her collarbone. Her heart swells as she gently traces the words she can’t see.

“Flowers, quotes and birds would be pretty,” he says as he touches her face. “But you, unadorned is all the beauty I need.”

Author’s note:The line ‘your skin is a lovely place to live and die’ was in a poem written for me. Here is the poem…

The slick skin touches
rushes from pore to pore
I’ve never touched or tasted
anyone this quite this color before.
Forgive me. I don’t mean to linger
on your surface, but you sweat
and pulse so brilliantly, so brightly
I’m only now seeing my own color
as I stretch thin ankles and wrists to reach
up to you and stroke your hair
like the underbelly of the whole black sky.
Forgive me. I’ve always thought
of myself as a kind man, but now I know
how you move and loosen your long
muscles in morning light, legs firm and sweeping
neck arching across the room, to me
Your skin is a lovely place to live and die
but every time my mouth touches it
I want to bite through to the other side.