Les doigts au parfum de languissement

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You were one step away from the whispers

Of a murderess, words would not have arrested

Her undermining gestures. Her fingernails glistening

Across her ever-changing silhouette. She’d think of

Your presence and bit your shadow with grinding teeth.

 

She’d love you in the form that she would master,

Form and scorn herself, but you wouldn’t let yourself

Be defeated, exhaled her perfume, her image absent from

Your brain. Her nostrils infuriated. Her thighs tense and clenched.

 

She’d dissect your name between her lips,

Avid storms erupting from below her chest.

Her anatomy was clear to you since the first time

Her eyes looked at you. They claim that she’s an artwork

That doesn’t need adorning vocabulary. You detected a predator

That lies still, then dances, uses all her skills to drown your body

Within herself.

photo of person making clay pot
Photo by Vansh Sharma on Pexels.com

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