A professor of writing once told his class that a good project would be to write a sonnet every day for a year. It was absolutely impossible, he said, to write 365 bad sonnets in a row. I've always wondered if he was right.
Monday, April 06, 2009
#411: Desire
Lie back and put your hands behind your head.
No covering up--that's good. Now spread your thighs.
Open yourself to me. Look in my eyes.
I want to see you sprawled upon the bed,
your nipples hard pink buds, your skin aflame,
the flower of your sex all wet with dew,
breathe in your passion's scent, and cover you
with hungry kisses, whispering your name.
I want to drag my tongue along the line
of calf and inner arm, elbow and knee,
the furrow of your rump. I want to taste
your every flavor, drink you in like wine,
be drunk on you, and make you drunk with me.
We have all night. There is no call for haste.
_
Labels:
Sex
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