Tuesday, 17 May 2011


Your back a clean page

Firm beneath my hands.

I spread my fingers

And feel rise and fall of slow breath

In time with mine.

But no, not your heart

To feel it beat you would be a man.

I want you my instrument

Unmoving, with legs bound.

Your back my canvas

Symbols drawn from my fingers.

You see by a feeling

That fades as it cools.

I warm you with wax drops

Red, I peel them away

The first marks.

I trace lines between them

My nails a rehearsal for a blade

Cleaning away all other sensation

But for the salt I brush in

With lemon juice I wash you.

Your arms unbound

Muscles tense to tear cloth.

I bite your shoulder

Earthy spice of sweat

Dries on my tongue.

Your arms I stroke unmarked

Slow to your wrist.

Your hands will touch no part of me

They are just for my eyes

To hold and imagine

How you will play for me

In the final movement.


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