Lilt the thrill of finger lace
thread in skin – spiral life
twisting in information, the pulse
staining her in milky white.
Despite the night she rises
anticipating him, his touch again
and more, parting her silk
to taste a cherished depth
more than any whore - she responds,
his whispers and fingertips
penetrate the latex film
that once kept her sound.
Awash in possibility she winds
in fine chemise, the fabric fuels
a yearning as her fragrance moistens
each step she takes towards him.