faint quiet fingertips — feather light on skin
like lightstreak peeking in between curtains
drawn shut. I’d never felt such warmth within,
this body was always encased in ice.
oh but your hands — fond, ardent, bruising
marks burning into innocent hipbones
pressed into sheets I’m this close to breaking —
one step short of a fall into unknowns.
though I desperately want — for I’ve missed
the spring; will I be lost if I fall too fast?
the whispers insist — I’m weak to resist
I’m all I’ve hidden:
will you break me as if I were pure glass?
perchance then I’ll find paradise light-cast.