On nights grown heavy with doldrums torpor
the lingering heat invites an indolent reflection
upon the pitiless remnant of the day's last solar flare,
and you sensuously stretch, oh, so unaware
of your lithesome grace or how the sheen
of sweat lends its own allure to your sensuality.
I wonder if you realize what it does to me?
That sheen, so iridescent, sleekly glinting on bare skin.
The acrid perfume that is your musk compelling
me to entertain thoughts bordering on the lavishly carnal.
If not for this languorous mood I should bury
myself within your heady charms, but instead,
I sip Italian wine and merely contemplate your form.
There is a sleepy thunder in your grace, a certain
sluttish coyness however understated and sublime,
it does still rumble with a caveat of storm, yes fair
warning to be sure, you are anything but demure
in your passion. How sweetly I could plunge into
your ecstasy, until I might die in one burning flash
of pleasure. Yes to be ablaze within you, a beast
unbound in the pounding rhythms of glory! Yet
you just recline with a nonchalant air, unaware?