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

attempting.

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

you had,

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

us.

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.