Sensual Sonnet

Iambic pentameter? Meet Lust.

We draw the curtains tight to hush the night,
And spark the air with whispers made of flame;
Your breath ascends like mist in amber light,
I taste its pulse and learn your secret name.

The ceiling drips with hush of gathered storms;
Each sigh a thunderbolt against the skin;
We ride the velvet curve of rising forms,
Till sweat becomes the prophecy within.

Your fingers script the score along my spine,
While mine conduct the choir beneath your lace;
Our tongues invent a language past design,
A dialect that flares in molten grace.

At last, we crash like waves on midnight sand;
The hush returns… two embers, hand in hand.

---