Sound It Out

It’s the sound –
each word torn from lips
guttural
low down
honest
– that unbuttons my blouse
or slinks my skirt over hip,
access all areas
given to the breathing
that wets my lips
tightens my thighs,
lifts my chest and arches my back.

It’s the sound –
how sweated words that pant
surge
escape
let you loose
to colour code my skin
the way you do
a map of discovery for later
for private moments of private thought
– which brings memory,
almost tangible in its taste,
to flood the space between my legs.

It’s the sound –
heard from positions varied
changeable
malleable
deeper
– which flaunt themselves to me
when distraction no longer holds
and I slide between sheets
hot skinned
dark thought
to sleep dirty
…and wake you, hard.

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