You were in a garb you saved for me
transcending the expectations of perpetuating walls
that enclosed the limbs of us,
rendering silence for groping, stretching
An hourglass you set, about an hour's past
on the sill of that window
each grain of sand descending to a pool of misconduct
enduring the methodic falling of sediment before it.
The paint on the sill, cracked and worn like the skin
under your thighs
told us to move at a pace so rapid,
as to distort the feelings veiled by your blouse.
This wrought-iron bed would withstand us,
endure our presence, and passion for gratification.
The necklace of pearls weighed with poise
across your chest, a web of unspoken desire
elegantly choking prudence.
It was those pearls I tore from your sweet ginger neck
maliciously, because you were rude
saying that the night made you nervous, and jewelry made you beautiful.
But you felt the assurance as I slid up and down you,
in and out of you,
legs used at the discretion of intuition.
And your lips, how tender and lucious the folds of you seemed.
Rhythmically now, we comprised a pattern:
of shrill cries and surrenders to the bitter air,
the breath of that night were at the hands of
And the squall of your screams against the midnight air
will wake us all
and the passion will cease.
And I'll do what Daddy did before
because he taught me that beneath every girl
there was nothing but a common whore.