boomslang

My voice snakes around your ankles
a soft longing just above your toes
before the hissed kiss and sliding
of skin on skin

At the fork my tongue suggests the bite
of awareness - the scent of heat
the urge for writhing

These are the restless humps of breath
long and drawn in, short and puffed out
that undulate along the edge of touch

There is no forgiveness here among whispered lust
only apologies and the taste of sex.