More To Come

No rhyme, no reason to report
This mind has lost its discipline
I kiss concentration off
With her hand upon my thigh
 
She whispers an ancient spell
Enough to make the righteous hard
I consider it her finest gift
And celibacy now seems a curse
 
I slip myself between her thighs
And listen to her murmured words
Their lilt makes me harder still
Driving me right to the brink
 
But I pause, it seems in time
Allowing her to reach that peak
The crescendo is one that we share
And in mutual delight
 
We can feel the ceiling fan
Its current playing on our skin
We cannot help but drift asleep
Dreams reminding there is more to come.