On white lace she lies, a victim
like on the night I first touched her.
Wettened by the
perspiration of my body,
locked into tumultuous
throes of passion,
excited by the perilous motions
of lust under the stars.
Lady underneath whore's mask
fingernails slice through
my false merriment.
Underneath the skin is a gawking child
confused by the stir caused by her,
enraptured by her saliva
drying in the wind,
insatiably pleading his case to
her obstinate ears,
searching for escape even while
arriving at his destination.
Next morning coffee slowly perks
alarm rambles on and on and I feel weak.
Covers stained, jumbled up and she is gone.
I struggle to convince myself I felt her touch
if only for that one night.
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