Slowly engulfed by wet, crimson lip
Igniting the tip of my lust.
The pulse of music beats in our chests,
Hers rises on the inhale, nipples bloomed.
She holds my gaze, suggestive, shadowed,
Exhaling coils of salty,sweaty limbs -
Smoky sutras suggested by her breath.
Cigarette removed, she holds it, lit, aloft
Across the floor her naked nicotine beckons.
Then
We are smoke - wetness and ash entwined
Dripping, soiled with tobacco's sensuous scent
Beneath her foot the spark is crushed
But the fire is only just beginning to devour.
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The Octoberman. All I need is a bottle of Talisker, a keyboard and you. Facebook: Nikarkham www.nikarkham.co.uk
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