Polaris
10-01-2007, 05:39 AM
There is nothing that clothes her
like cold, dampish cigarette-smoke --
on such afternoons
she is a smoky silhouette
and a paler reflection
in the bare window
leading to a street
silent, and stripped of life:
yet inside she attests
to the fleeting instance
of heated discussion of flesh
against flesh,
sees desire in his eyes,
and fire in their loins.
I know, only very mildly erotic...and not graphic at all. I do write erotica occasionally, but I'm hardly ever straight forward with it...which is probably because I hate the word 'nipple'. Anyway, thought I'd post it nonetheless. :)
like cold, dampish cigarette-smoke --
on such afternoons
she is a smoky silhouette
and a paler reflection
in the bare window
leading to a street
silent, and stripped of life:
yet inside she attests
to the fleeting instance
of heated discussion of flesh
against flesh,
sees desire in his eyes,
and fire in their loins.
I know, only very mildly erotic...and not graphic at all. I do write erotica occasionally, but I'm hardly ever straight forward with it...which is probably because I hate the word 'nipple'. Anyway, thought I'd post it nonetheless. :)