consummation

If the eating is to be done,

best to make it slow,

savoring each morsel,

letting each bite revel

in subtle intercourse

with the regions of the tongue,

individually

then in collaboration,

a melding of sensation that synapses

in a tumultuous spread of reaction.

Sweet,

salty,

bitter,

pungent

passion

spilling from my mouth as

the pressure of

your light-hued perception

sparks the buried flame

as a match to a wick,

raising the blood to the dermal surface

in a flush to stir

even the weakest of vampiric impulse.

That upward glance

pierces through all pretense of veneer,

stripping away all implication of

blockade,

barrier,

catapulting electric arcs

in continuous battery.

But this is no mere look,

no.  With every remaining sensation

you proceed to conquer the

collapse of empty division,

devour your captive in entirety,

appease your burning thirst

in a leisurely slaking,

and relish in the paper-thin threshold,

that duality of painful pleasure,

that sensation of fluid existence

dripping from the humid night air,

staining the cotton sheets in complicity.