WHITE CANVAS

Your mind is an absolute catalyst
and I can’t deny
a mouth that is a sweet, silky murder
(and you do it so well)
wrapping me in
strips–
teased
climbing my ribs
like a staircase
as hearts escape
a noonday silence of crimescene,
smilingly.
Tomorrow,
a chalk-outline of
bottled
up
whispers, folded,
white on white
swim to your mind
in an ocean of shady thoughts.
Can you hear them?

2 Comments

  1. the poem, itself, is “an absolute catalyst,” combining different elements into an erotic work that likens love to murder. the “crime” sounds so attractive that tomorrow can’t get here quickly enough. i really like the closing.

    Like

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