The writing of erotica seems quite popular these days.
I’ve thought about trying it, just for the challenge of something new, but I’m not made for it.
To a person like me, who needs no fancy incantations to summon the fiery imp within, it’s hard to see what words should tease a more coy spirit from slumber.
All the entreating I need
is to hear the rhythmic hush of his breath,
the kiss of his skin whispering its warmth to mine
through thin cloth barriers,
even at the most casual brushing by.
Perhaps I'm just too easily enflamed.
That hypnotic curl at the junction
of my lover’s perfect lips
as they draw into a subtle grin,
that is all it takes to rush pressure into my veins
flush heat into my face and ears,
and dizzy me to a drunken high.
True, should you add to that a touch,
a stroke of my neck or hip or thigh,
my cravings burn still hotter.
Yes, I drown in intoxication
at seeing his face above me,
like sky and sun and storm clouds
overwhelming the very air I drink
in heavy, hurried breaths,
But for all that follows this,
words in any mixture are too cold and tame
to merit speaking.
The stormy blaze that consumes all reason, all words,
melts cognitive circuitry into molten fury,
Where words simply have no meaning.