I never forgot your smell,
or how soft your cheek was;
like tender coconut flesh.
How soft your cheek was,
when I dared to push my lips against it.
I never forgot how
my back pressed against the wall.
Green, cold, flaky paint.
I remember trying to remember the moment
the hot flush of love against the cold of the wall.
The memory lives, grows, sears.
It is a fever. You shudder, you sweat.
You want to lie down, you need to sit up.
Yes, a fever. A fire that’s burning me up.
A fire that won’t listen to reason.
I will be your phoenix, you can be my arsonist.
Scarlet lips to burn you, flushed cheeks to burn you.
Here, inside of me, is a living arsenal.
A veritable, flammable woman;
you will keep me alive with flames of longing.
That first spark has grown,
brighter now, bolder now.
Your lips are under my thumb:
trembling pink flesh. Now wet with wanting,
now parched in anticipation.
Fan my flames, for I need you, to make it through
this stark and lonely night.
Touch your tongue to mine, quench this longing.
Nay, stay away, lest all turn to ashes.
There is a desperation in this denial. A quiet hunger.
A spasming want.
I will wait. I will make you want me.
(Written with @URM1)