Velvet Supernova

She stands at the window, and I can see moonbeams reflecting off her pupils,
dilated, entombed in steel-blue, catching me off-guard.
The leather strap of her bra slouches from her sloped shoulder,
one careless rebellion that steals the breath from my dry throat.
She's a statue, she's an alabaster Medusa come to life,
she's turning me to stone with every smirk her crimson lips curl to form.
She knows, I'm sure she knows,
that I'm envisioning that defiant bra strap slipping further,
further, further, falling to the floor,
that I'm imagining the way her skin pales against her black sheets.
She's a supernova against the velvet nothingness,
luminescent and enrapturing and dangerous all at once.
And she knows what I'm thinking, I'm sure she knows,
that when my breathing catches, it's because I'm longing,
I'm begging to touch, to taste, to move inside her.
The way the cold metal of a car wraps itself around a signpost,
that's the way I imagine our limbs tangling around each other.

The window is open and your skin is ice.
Would you warm under my fingertips?
I want to make you melt.