Her hip shudders my cunt; hand near my breast
not close enough to call quite yet a touch.
A hover, teasing breeze, never so much
that I can call it love. Pink satin vest

damp with her sweetest scent wet at my arm.
We call it dancing and our feet engage
kiss dart back pass. And stamp, if not in rage,
then fury near it. We both hope no harm

comes of our maenad frenzy. If we tear
it will be at each other. Our control
slips slightly. Claw my flesh, my face, my soul.
It’s all within our rules. We play at dare

where hearts collide and bruise at such high speed
we do not know love’s dead until we bleed.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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