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A sinner that craves the sin.
If only his hand could touch onto my skin
Beneath the fiery depths of hell,
I bet he knows what he's doing
and I bet he does it well.
I imagine his hot breathe on my neck.
His soft finger tips traveling down my back.
His grip could be my demise.
To him, I would confess my every vice.
To feel his tongue run along my chest
The clothes I'm left wearing, he'd detest.
I would want him to touch every inch of me
Do things to drive me wild
Do the things that make me crazy.
His feather light touch running up my leg.
I bet he'd be the man who'd make me beg.
I'd be all his for the taking.
For this man is undeniably breathtaking.
I think it's safe to say,
We know what kind of
mood I'm in.
Ugh.
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Weight of Words
PoesíaPoetry.. For the broken, misguided, mistreated, abused & sometimes ...in the mood.
