Seething Tea

She weaves words.
She wears them as clothes.

Slipping through an entendre or a mesh of her emotions,
the centerfold has no chance,
no pyromaniacal spark,
in between my ears where loveliness kindles
with every word I concentrate.

Like some bush never consumed by its fire
tickles to her phrases forever.

And beneath that cloth of words identity
is tattooed over the racy
curves and molds.
I feel it in my mind as it completely undoes into a string.

Binding myself with her encoded persona
into her tropic flesh,
and the plant flames full of attraction.

Knowing there to be
my consciousness and her consciousness blending paint
is so much to sleep on
in a room temperature bed.

Then wake up to a new day
and feel her voice
palpitating inside of me.
I breathe her hot into my torso
without a sensational unveiling
of what all the other girls have got.
Just my linguistic interrogation
and the sultry tip of her tongue.