THE CLOSET MYSTIC

The song of your moan

is an echo in my mind,

What a beautiful chorus, 

your cry, so sublime—

Beneath my fingertips,

you became poetry —

no shortage of meaning

in each line of your body.

Buried to the hilt,

in your velvet heat — 

and as you came undone,

you thanked me in repeat.

Still in you, I held you, 

mere embers in a cuddle—

we melted together,

dissolved in our puddle—

Still can I taste

your need, so sweet,

you, my last meal,

there’s nothing—

no, nothing

I’d rather eat.