|I think he's overacting.|
Keeping in mind the prime purpose of poetry, it's going to be difficult to rev up the heavy breathing factor with....
GLUTTONYSomehow, the night illuminates you,
naked and splayed against clean, white sheets,
Your scent, the scent of gin and lotus blossoms,
stokes my hunger drawing me down, until I am lost,
no longer thinking.
Taste, you whisper,
and I am consumed with devouring,
unable to stop until there is nothing left of us.
We are a husk, a shell, emptied and drained,
even so, I need more.
Even so, you whisper Taste.
For your convenience, I'm posting the other poems here. Although it is much more convenient to not bother to read any of them. Apparently.
It eats at me,
ever since that late spring night,
when you first touched me, and took everything.
All my hunger, all my wants,
all my yearning, all my need.
You kissed me and it all went away.
But then you left, and it all came back,
and it eats at me.
You taste like Saturday night,
with a hint of Sunday confession.
trails of smoke follow your touch
and I burn.