Petit mort

Like a shiver swirling waves of breath
you move me to intoxication.
There is no lust without some small death.

Lips – flesh - your touch irrepressibly
burning through my imagination
like a shiver swirling waves of breath.

My wetness streams undeniably
for you, on your anticipation,
there is no lust without some small death.

My rise and writhe moans memorably
boiling beyond my limitation
like a shiver swirling waves of breath.

The searing swell inescapably
floods my clit under your fixation,
there is no lust without some small death.

The torrent rush unmistakably
swelters – there is no moderation –
like a shiver swirling waves of breath
there is no lust without some small death.