Desire

Under the soft translucent linen,

  the ridges around your nipples

 

harden at the thought of my tongue.

  You — lying inverted like the letter ‘c’ —

 

arch yourself deliberately

  wanting the warm press of my lips,

 

it’s wet to coat the skin

  that is bristling, burning,

 

breaking into sweats of desire —

  sweet juices of imagination.

 

But in fact, I haven’t even touched

 you. At least, not yet.