His tongue in my ear,
Mornings first breath.
Fingers ripple over naked, waves
Of desperate hands all over me
Aching like cheeks pressed with wine
Savoring each sip they draw
From me. Shakespearian sonnets
And prose, so smoothly sculptured,
Metaphors pushing through
Motionless minutes, sultry soliloquy’s
Moaned over ripe lips, cherried.
He devours them.
Licking at juices
Spilt like droplets of nectar,
(c) A Hannan