Ocsana

What colours

Were ever more meant,

Then crimson on snow

And raven black strands?

Sea green trickling

To a rose cupids bow.

And blue lines map,

To that pulse by the neck.

Red rope on ivory skin

Rough abrasion on soft silk

Burning hurt leading to gasping pleasures

The contradictions that make life worth living

It is not in the way your eyes see through me as mine follow the arc of your approach.

Nor is it the way your fingers trail heat across my flesh where moments ago chilled goosebumps were raised.

It isn’t the way your lips lure the truth of my desires, spilling secrets never before revealed. Continue reading →