Sunday Twilight Tease

Sunday twilight tease, that magical place,
floating somewhere between the
darkness that caresses and the
slipping away of sleep.
The slow shifting of your own weight
against the warmth of crumpled cotton
beneath you and the unknowing
of the slow writhe into the only
position that makes any sense, alone in
your own twilight,
oft thighs just fall open, as if in slow
motion, as heels barely touch, toes curl and the
perfect heart shaped offering of petals awakened in twilight dew begin to unfold.

Sunday twilight tease of His
obey weight shifting lower,
the almost squeak of bedsprings, the burn in your
chest when you don’t realize you’re holding your own breath
tight, almost feeling Him positioning
almost feeling His breath pouring warm over glistening betrayal,
almost feeling your own hips
beginning the slow rise

Almost begging within yourself
never wanting the twilight to depart
not yet
please

Toes curl up warm sides,
feet rest gently on the sweet place on
his back just made for the, fingers, snake
into soft, bed rumpled hair and curl, almost
twist

Sunday twilight tease
until sleep hazed eyes can no longer focus,
the warmth of His soft
mouth, drawing into you, lapping to soft
mewl of deep timbre in resonance within
You.

Sunday twilight tease into the myriad of a thousand little deaths

dancing within the rain of light behind your
eyes to the
kaleidoscope of colour as sunlight streams
through your window
and you beg twilight to stay forever.

Two soft fingertips to the chalice of His desire,
slowly withdrawn, softly suckled,
as breathe returns and twilight fades to light of day whimpering

The tease of dawn.