In a room illuminated solely in the glow of candlelight
I complain that I can’t see
You’re motion; disguised
The taste of sulfur is covering your skin.
We’re weightless rotations trapped in an
astrological design and I begin to feel
You plead to me in enigmatic tongue
I do not understand
beaconing me forward with a temptatiously
I attempt to lose you in a veil
to a prayer by a monk
who meditated in the Egyptian desert
that no longer shine
your lips sear my skin
and weaken my resolve.
Desperate I gasp
as you bare your sharp white teeth
in a destitute smile
and remove the bandana you have wrapped in your hair
to tie it
about my mouth.
“No blasphemy here
you say while coyly biting my earlobe.
And it is not with surrender
yet with something far more desperate
that I yield into your allowance as
and surround me
reassuredly whispering to me that
“There is no blasphemy