Mornings

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  • Passion

    Mornings
    Tender folds of cool sheets, drink thirstfully of passions heat. Feathered graze along your hips, lighting fire with your fingertips. Tasting traces travel my swollen nipples, windows breeze blown shivering ripples. Electric sizzles cruise your veined impulse, tingling in throws we toss. Heaving breathless drips in sweat, oblivious with no regrets. Consumed total and whole, heights reached beyond control. Cold sheets tender folds.

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    In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite.

    Franz Kafka (1883-1924) Czech writer.

    tink’s Poems (21)

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