Two past midnight, when the phone rings.
The 'smug' in my smile, knows that it's you.
Bass in your hello, one octave too low
a canned heat type of mellow, seeping through
Instantly, I know you've found
the souvenir, my gift to you
slipped under your pillow, for restless nights
French cut, black lace, optimum rear view.
They wear me still, like fine perfume
and permeate your sensory gates.
I need neither lease, nor key.
Osmosis grants me your headspace.
Close your eyes. Let me slip behind
your lids, play backbeat to your every stroke.
Massage your ear drum from the inside
out, whispering wet, sweet and low.
I hear your slip, over the edge.
All falls away, but my voice, in the night.
My smile slices darkness, at the sound
of French cut black lace, covered in white.
- Add a