misconstrued passion

She speaks in  
secret ritual  
of tiny splinters  
   
infecting velvet hues    
that cling desperately  
upon tightly knitted flesh  
   
quivering ever slightly 
strung out  
on naked light  
   
with twisted bones    
and bending skin  
that pry chaste tongues    
   
all just before    
faint trails of dusk relapse  
in envied defeat  
   
and a distorted moon    
all but severs perk lips  
with staggering fits of lust