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.