White linen bed sheets threaten,

As this sepia-tone feeling deepens,

Sharp-cut collar bones glisten with ungallant sweat,

As shocks, bolts of electricity pass between wet clay skins.

Your French-manicured fingers trail numbly,

Down cheeks and razorblades, red marks on pale skin,

Over ruby red lips that shine in the night,

Their plastic quality heat melted in the 108 room.

Chocolate hair cascades,

And whispered words like butterflies,

Leave poison trails down to your thighs,

Shudder from their cool gentleness.

Ecstasy in the mid-night air,

Motionless movements of bliss,

Questioning restraint, the roughness of hips,

And feather-light touches that tickle and thrill,

Trembling hands that shake with any emotion,

Sexual tension so thick, you can feel it,

Permeating moods, in veins, minds, skin,

Coincide with red lipstick scratches on backs.