| Unrestricted Passion |
I lay spooned beneath the curve of his body
Like some mediated form of pleasure
That poster perfect smile of pursed lips,
listless locks of brown curls draping
Alongside my face like a fine-spun silk.
Smiling, we lay entwined, his hand lost
Knowingly along the crevice between
My thigh and that place where life begins.
Briefly, enigmatically, I touch his cheek
With a hand that knows well the grasp of goodbye.
We are a tragic pair in all our dishonest repute,
He, invited into my burning bed by the whims
of a fantasy with no sequel, a lie lost on crimson lips.
And me, the mystical mistress found within
Two steamy sheets and a listless heart of fondling.
Originally appeared in Mastodondentist Winter of 2007, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2007
Like some mediated form of pleasure
That poster perfect smile of pursed lips,
listless locks of brown curls draping
Alongside my face like a fine-spun silk.
Smiling, we lay entwined, his hand lost
Knowingly along the crevice between
My thigh and that place where life begins.
Briefly, enigmatically, I touch his cheek
With a hand that knows well the grasp of goodbye.
We are a tragic pair in all our dishonest repute,
He, invited into my burning bed by the whims
of a fantasy with no sequel, a lie lost on crimson lips.
And me, the mystical mistress found within
Two steamy sheets and a listless heart of fondling.
Originally appeared in Mastodondentist Winter of 2007, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2007
| ~A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and islands weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough. She thinks she can warn the stars. A writer is essentially a spy. Dear love, I am that girl.~ Anne Sexton |
| Stacy Lynn Mar |