Erotic PoetryAmante IVThe waiting mouth
wants taking, deliberately biting
the plum, the fruit of night,
tasting texture, hearing tones
of breath, anticipation
of fingertips trailing skin,
glinting.
The phosphorescent pinpoints.
I bend Amante
as this first flush rises,
blushed dark with fever,
stretched taut as soft glass
oozing sweet trembles
and curved to lips
waiting to kiss
the night.
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