Her voice…
Melody, harmony…
How angels sound
Revealing loud secrets, maps
Sending me on a never ending trip
To Isle de Muerta
In search of cursed Aztec treasures;
Sounds of music
Smooth and clear, crystal
A mirror in the elevation
Of self worth;
Tickles to my ears
Unbeatable ego boost
Her moans, my name, her lips
Inspiration to go harder
Her lies…
Sweet to taste

Her body…
Sculpted to perfection
Dangerous curves
Sure to lead to the afterlife
Softer than soft
Cushions to a weary existence
Of hard won battles
Where blood and guts
Pay instant gratification
Trembling hands
Reminiscent of incurable Parkinson’s
Whenever they rove over suppleness
Light wafts of her scent
Like the aroma of baked cakes
Hits the olfactory
Numbing, distorting all other stimuli
Firing up a terminal hunger
To kiss, to taste, to lick, to eat

Her touch…
Cool water to my dry skin
Tense, taut muscles in anticipation
Of momentary pleasure
Etched forever
In the canvas of ecstatic memories
Shivers of deathly intoxication
As she works the magic
Of her hands
Even Houdini couldn’t escape
The shackles of her sinful spell
Fingers tracing, teasing
Lips so tender
The warmth of wetness
Heightening senses to a stand still
Throbbing and pulsing
Bursting like pressured pipes
To a moment of utter blankness
Where the darkness of exhaustion
Is finally welcome

Malcolm O. Ifi.

Engage on twitter @saymalcolm

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