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A Gentle Burglar

Let me show you

What I Believe

 

 

I believe

you are a gentle burglar,

that you see me by the pool

as I intend you to see me…

tightening my bottom in that

Brazilian cut nylon…

sliding the edges up my crack…

showing you my ass.

 

I walk to my room, and I believe

you will follow.

I believe

you are a gentle burglar.

 

As I leave the door ajar,

I believe you will enter…

soft and adoring as a gardener

to his field, as a delivery boy bringing

a bouquet of flowers, as a butler with

a glass of sherry. I believe

you are a gentle burglar.

 

As you snip off my bikini, I believe

you are a florist

pruning my roses, dispensing with

the leaves and the crowded stems,

tossing them away to

admire my petals.

 

As you twist your twine around

my fragile neck, I believe

you are securing my vines,

holding me fast against the pounding

elements, the blazing heat searing between

my legs, the rush of flooding waters.

 

As you lay me down

on the cool tile, listless and motionless,

curdled in a pool of milky emulsion,

beautifully nude as summer,

quiet as the final seconds of sunset,

 

I believe

you are a cloud

dripping warm rain

on my paralyzed face,

dripping on my breasts and

the seam of my sex,

pouring and soaking my sun-drenched skin.

I’m wet to the end.

 

As you pluck off my earrings and

put them in your pocket,

I believe

you are a gentle burglar…

    What do you think?

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