I run my fingers through his golden locks.
For, in these thoughts I know I'm not alone.
He knocks me out of my white cotton socks.
His velvet tongue against my open door;
No need to knock so I just show him in.
His mouth is hot and I'm aching for more.
The space between our lips is paper thin.
A roller coaster ride, I'm at the top;
Rhythmic Kashmir waves urge me ahead.
It's harvest time and I'm the only crop.
I reap what he has sewn inside my bed.
As energies increase, I hold my breath,
For this is what they call "the little death".
12-15-13
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