“Suckle me,” you said, unzipping the front
of your snow suit. “These are all my hungers;
feed me.” First snow of the year and your cunt
is a damp hint under all these layers.
Under this snow the gods sleep. Passions creep
about in queer forms. Wreaths of fog circle
your head as I wriggle two fingers deep
inside. “So cold,” you groan. “Yes, be brutal,
make my sweet heat come.” Something is coming,
with my hand down your onesie and your face
pressed to my neck … perhaps something wicked?
Perhaps even now the gods are dreaming
about your heat and how my fingers trace
runes in your cum, raw and sacred like blood.