sometimes

 

it’s so cold at midnight, sometimes

i arch my back like a cornered stray

tug at the familiar restraints

of tangled sheets

a late night cocoon

and i, a frantic little butterfly

lift my hipbones off the frigid mattress

force my thighs apart with tense hands

as if longing causes levitation

i writhe on an invisible axis

to straddle the phantom of you

i whimper like a wounded fox

beckoning, surrendering myself

i trace the moist lace fabric

that separates my fingers

from my swollen pink opening

i imagine your face buried deep

in my dripping flesh

frenzied and lapping

intoxicated by the wet sounds

when you French kiss those lips

you stop only to enjoy the sight

of my white knuckles clutching the duvet

and my breasts swaying

with the heaving of restless breaths

you tell me to say your name

and i call out for you desperately

as if my very life depends on it

just like i do

at midnight

on cold nights, sometimes

a. duncan, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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"She would fill endless notebooks with stories about the characters in her life, their impressions, words, friends, lovers, inspirations, fantasies. She spent her days dreaming up worlds where they fit together in visions; the if only, the never again, the someday. Those who knew her best would describe her as a creature with a clear and sometimes painful sense of herself; furious with ideas and convictions, to a point that she frightened love away with discernment and a relentless strength of character."

11 thoughts on “sometimes

  1. Oh dear, this was a departure from your work – instead of being reflective and quiet, this one is set ablaze and I got here just in time to see the fire.

    I like the way you’ve done this, stopping and starting in the middle of sentences, lending power to stress words like Beckoning and Dripping.

    It’s a maddening piece, to be sure: one that stirred a reaction in me, make no mistake.

    And now I will relent with my critique on your work.

    Liked by 1 person

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