THE MEMORY LINGERS

The memory lingers,  
while, wishful, my fingers    
help me to recapture    
that weekend of rapture,    
when nothing else mattered    
while kisses you smattered    
over my bare body    
before you pleasured me    
with tongue, lips of your mouth    
upon my lips down south,    
    
Then your manhood entered    
where my core was centred,    
its stiff length and its girth    
started moving the earth    
then to Seventh Heaven.    
How hard was it driven,    
and how we repeated,    
first me on you seated,    
and then from behind me    
all-foured like a doggy.    
     
We were wicked and wild    
as that suite we defiled,;   
each piece of furniture    
was christened in rapture,    
We left with the imprints    
of worked out sex instincts    
for hotel staff cleaning    
to restore to gleaming.