Desire

Under the soft translucent linen,

the ridges around your nipples

harden at the thought of my tongue.

You — lying inverted like the letter ‘c’—

arch yourself deliberately

wanting the warm press of my lips,

it’s wet to coat the skin

that is bristling, burning,

breaking into sweats of desire —

sweet juices of imagination.

But in fact, I haven’t even touched

you. At least, not yet.