Older than Sanskrit

Astonishing bates of breath caught
in parched throat;
lascivious determination is
drawn
tight against your pants. . .

Heaving emanations
I hold here for you
burn to touch. . .

Insatiable matched pulse
surges
in unisoned splendor;
unrelenting.

Increasingly highlighted
cutaneous sense,
spirals me to
the bottom of the world.

I grasp the Earth beneath my nails,
attempting in vane to
hold my position in this place,
yet
there seems
no pleasure in having to remain
virtuous,
no end to the delicious yearning

melting my inner resistance. . .
no relief for me at all;
not until;

you plunge

into my depths,
arrest my inhibitions,
swim through
uncharted waters,
where my storms interminably rage.

Please,
rescue me
from devastation,
transgress every taboo
created for the sake of holiness. . .

I have much to be thankful for. .

Your name is sighed in syllables
too primal
for comprehension,
tense response grips me,
and
I am not afraid.

My sweetest invitation for you,
my love;
written in a language older
than Sanskrit,
requires no interpreter. . .

Blatantly, my request resounds
outside confines of limitations,

Memorize it for future reference;
It's indelibly written on drenched,
parted lips;

clearly it says:

ravish me.