Struck

Struck  
 
I wear a mauve, silk shirt, with a pocket, with a pen.  
My lungs are throbbing through it,  
on your sacredness.  
You, sit across the bar,  
smoking a tall cigarette,  
not knowing the gravity  
of our meeting.  
 
You stand.  
I watch the catch and release of your snake-hips,  
listen to the elocution, on that limber tongue  
and bake myself asunder on the idea of crumbling  
your bare, blue-painted toes.  
 
This need to suspend you,  
     to ascend you, to climb deep, down in the moist insides.  
You, before me, quiver to the garden, mid-winter,  
and there, you kneel before my feet - in the fen.  
"Back, until you've finished counting to ten." The sensor light to the Public House no longer spots you, there.  
I meet you, mirror your position and let you touch your lips to mine  
however never engage.  
"Let me in." It's barely a whisper.  
 
I remove my shirt,  
watch you  
watch you need, and tremble, to touch what's there  
with your tongue, with your fingers, with your teeth.  
My nipple meets creases of your mouth, as I arch my back  
but only a feel of the warmth as offering and then  
 
it is detracted. The heat is sucked from the space and it's bitter out here.  
You look into my eyes, endeavour to undo a button on your dress, all softness and fear,  
but I can't see it yet. No,  
I can't unveil your innocence.  
I place the rope around your wrists again and again and again. A sickness, a need swallowing me whole.  
It's tight,  
you're too jittery  
to complain.  
I lead you to the car park  
in the filled, swollen dark.  
 
The boot is covered in a blanket.  
It smells like lavender, and sin.  
You bow your head, with every ounce of a swan's grace, and you lay your body out for me.  
I shut the door, engulf this compulsion again,  
drive - fast - the 1971 Ford Pinto  
three miles  
west  
and for the infinite needs, for the passions, for the faith of your soul,  
(because I had to)  
I swallow you whole.