you lie there,
recklessly,
amongst the folds of wrinkled cotton sheets,
your breasts pressed against a strewn pillow,
your derriere, like a ripe peach,
almost touching my thigh,
the soft fuzzy hairs
seeking me out with a passive electricity,
like cilia.
The cheeks still blushed red from my handprints,
my loving caresses
that had caused you to dig your heels in,
rocking with increasing fervor
as you pitched and swayed
your way to fulfillment.
I had watched the glorious bloom rise
from your hips to your face and back,
as you panted with pleasure,
eyes closed,
intent on your own cresting wave
steadily crashing into mine,
the echo of which
begins to fire synapses
along the length of my nerves
as I raise my hands to my lips
and suck long,
hard,
and deep
on the cigarette resting between my lips,
a prelude to my intent,
my means of waking you from your slumber,
as I set the nicotine in the tray next to me,
a mere afterthought,
a minor stimulus
compared to that drug
between your legs.
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