Eucatastrophe

I told him in my moment of weakness that there are soft bare things that linger beneath the hem of my little black dress, things that yearn for you and your attention, and he smiled at the subtle hint of pleasuring those things, along with himself.

Things, that he's already helped himself to, and my mind can't erase those things as I sway gently to the possibility of us swooning one another in a dance that transcends time and distance, and never ends as we set ourselves ablaze.

You know, wet hot aching things that are boldly accentuated by lace garments and hosiery which compliment those legs that go on and on forever, and his hands have already roamed my bare flesh, once upon a time.

He just needs to make the time to enable us to constellate and collide in the alliteration of our unencumbered fervency, and feel just how those things never ceased blossoming for him whilst my tongue scribbles my initials upon his lips so he remembers my name as he's osculable, and he doesn't remember my name but he will, in time.

There won't be any eloquence in the way I whisper filth to him in those twilight hours when my mind feels broken from the emerging silence and stillness that night brings, whilst beckoning him to break me in the least delicate or prurient ways so I might feel whole again by the time the sun peeks through our window.

And yes, I'm his lady as he fucks me like a whore in the shallow whilst he spray paints my mind with his elusive sticky love notes.