Tags
erotic poetry, essence, haunting cleavage, herb, like all the quiet ones in the back we end up being this dim memory, poem, skunk, sonnet, spice
Locked in her bathroom, her dirty hamper’s
pheromones bewitching while our fragrance,
once stirred by my tongue sunk in your pleasures,
stirs in the air, too: skunk-spice-herb. Essence
of what we once were. I dream of hemlock,
hash and cum pooled around your collarbone
haunting cleavage once wrapped around my cock
bud of your cunt’s bouquet a low down drone
drenched. When she knocks on the door the fragment
that is you flees. Where? Somewhere far above
me. You forgot? I keep remembering
what we once were: lascivious as scent,
ethereal as a ghost who’s found love,
desperate as this bust-ass flesh still searching.