Sunday, 15 January 2012

The Smoker

We will take it from the exhale.
A single drift, a caress of your lips
and the soft pass of silk that billows.
The bloom of orgasm widening in the air.
Your lips part in the afterthought of a kiss.
The afterthought of all that is in you
widening in the air.

There is a dilation inside you.
Your pupils become pools,
your lungs expand. And
your shoulders fall, the strength
at bay. Your chair is an oyster,
your chair a resting place. Your head
tilts back and smoke rises. It is
no signal of distress, no call to arms,
but an incense for your peace.

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