Silk and cool as if shadows of the
night itself have drifted down to
cloak your eyes, wind themselves

about your wrists and ankles, you
strain even against these tender
trappings, listening for you know

not where I am, what next will
be the touch: soft or hard, lip
or finger, ice or fire, feather

or kiss of leather?

* * *

© 2001 by Royce Sykes

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