Velvet armchairs
Huddle around the hearth -
"Take a seat,"
She says,
Atypically coy.
I think
About whether to mention
That she does not seem herself,
But that moment
Has passed,
And she climbs
Onto my lap,
Fingernails
Leaving trails on the
Velvet armchairs,
Then catching
My cheek;
Blissfully sharp,
But she will not draw blood,
Not yet.
All of a sudden, she seems to be herself
Once again,
And I thank the gods
For that wondrous smile
Which I
Am due to taste.
The brightness of those eyes...
Glory be,
But not to your God;
Glory be to this goddess,
Whose hair slips through
These fingers
Like smoke;
Whose beauty could not be
Less painful -
It is
Blissfully sharp,
And she draws blood now,
Softly,
Putting her lips to my wounds,
Softly,
Those fingernails sinking into
The velvet.
Glory be - what else
Can I say?
Her smile, atypically coy
Once again,
Contrasts with her eyes;
They cry out for sin -
For the roar of the hearth,
For the sensuous
Velvet,
For more than just
To sit on my lap;
Instead for her fingernails
To sink
Into my bare back,
Softly.
I long for the same,
And she must know,
For she licks my crimson
From her lips
Softly, slowly...
I think
About whether to mention
That she does not seem herself,
How she is usually
In a hurry,
Adverse to doing this slowly,
But I savour
The seconds as they pass.
Perhaps
We are something more
Than before.
Perhaps
I have just realised
That I'm holding her
More softly
Than before.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
