The Poetry in Sex

Poetry is blood.
It's passion,
it's a hammering pulse,
it's pink flesh searing
with delightful pain.

Poetry is scent.
Its her arousal causing his senses to tingle,
It’s anticipation thick enough to touch.
It's pulling his hands free of his control
with urges he cannot deny.

Poetry is sweat.
It’s the sheen on two bodies intertwined,
it's a trickle from his forehead
falling between her breasts
gliding it's way down.

Poetry is noise.
It’s the crescendo made into his mouth
It's the sharpened cries of desire
When she hears his moan
against the skin of her neck.

Poetry is tears.
It's the cry in the night that is primal,
it's ecstasy bubbling up
from below a still surface.
It's emotion that takes over
as she comes down
leaking from the corners
of her still shut eyes.

Poetry is pain.
It's the sense of loss she feels
when he withdraws
It's the shock
of a too sensitive caress.

Poetry is taste.
It's the sweetness of shared lips
in a crashing kiss
It's the salted burn
of happy tears
he kisses from her face.

Poetry is a small death.
It's reaching the top and falling together.
It's a pause,
broken by an unspoken promise.
It's not knowing if this was the end
or a new beginning you achingly need.
It's the instant that ticks by
in between breathy sighs,
and the moan of a dawning moment.