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 out your deluge
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…
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