you imagine the fold
of her hand underneath
a jaw jutting upward
in a velvety moan.
You press yourself into the
something akin to regression; artificially climactic -
she is after all
masculine in her shadow-shell,
becoming a braid loosely tied at the side of her face.
All she wants is you,
a foreign casualty to the idea that death is romantically savage -
what is more spacious after all, then confinement?
So, swan neck
tilted in an attempt to surrender
the pose of virgins in the hands of their hungry masters,
diddling you with the slightest touch,
a foreign kiss, with very little fuss.
Written for the June Writing Challenge Contest, via the Review Game. Here is a link to the picture that inspired it: .com/art/In-the-White-72967264