Erotic Advent Calendar: day 5-8

Okay...so I suck...and not in the good way.  I started something I wasn't ready to finish (the story I have hence removed).  And then I commenced with the vacation laziness.  And now, my motivation is just about as high as my libido.  Damn.

So, here are a collection of 4 short poems to fill the void -

Day 5:

Craft

You are

a careful editor,

punctuating perfectly my untrained thoughts:

your commas

curling themselves around

the curves of my words

(a parenthetical embrace),

always encouraging a revolving door

in our conversation

with a well-placed question mark;

you omit semi-colons

which elaborate the unspoken

unnecessarily,

relying, instead, on apostrophes

to possess, with simplicity,

the object;

and always—

ellipses at the end,

leaving the window open

for silence…
Day 6:

The Garden of Eden

On first sight,

You took my heart in your hands,

Like an apple

Filling perfectly the palm,

Where every nuance, dent, and ridge

Fit each of mine.

You took the fruit to your lips,

Unearthing hidden knowledge:

Softness beneath bruised and bitter flesh.

It was tender and sweet,

And you knew me then.

It was never forbidden,

Only absent,

Kept from you just long enough

To ripen and ready.

Desire me;

I will satiate your need.

Devour me;

I will nourish your soul.
Know me;

I will share with you my secrets.

Love me;

I will devote my heart to yours.

And when my core is left exposed,

My flesh absorbed into your own,

The seeds remaining may birth an orchard,

To provide a lifetime’s worth of everything we need.

Day 7:
This one was written after I saw "Unfaithful" - go figure...

Un-

Wrapped faith in imported Japanese silk.

The woman said it was of best quality.

With timid manicured fingers,

Placed it in a Spanish music box—

plays “Tiny Dancer”

flamenco style,

a twinkling sound like childish laughter,

with a twist,

like they know why

I place it so far inside,

as if to apologize—

Gingerly, tuck it in,

a helpless infant,

fingers of guilt, slightly shaking,

vigilant, like a doubtful love,

suspicious, fearing rejection,

hoping for touch,

returned obsession.

When love becomes criminal,

a penny isn’t enough for a thought.

Nickled and dimed to death,

love left lying lifeless in the center of

a dying lily in the middle of

a refinished antique dining-room table.

And he had the nerve to ask why I’d been un—

and couldn’t finish the word,

all of his faith on the tip of his tongue.

I think he was just realizing why I’d packed

mine away—

to be full again.

Just a dangling prefix allowed the suffering suffix to survive,

revive its desperate grasp on

actions rather than guilty thoughts of

another.

Faith, between present and past,

Caught by two so different,

too different,

too mindful of what separates.
Day 8:

Victorian Romance

Burst the surface of her tenderness with adept fingertips.

Slip them inside her bittersweet core, and ravish her innocence that

is so knowing—a seasoned naivete—not quite that of a girl,

nor, yet, of a woman.

She will bend to your will because she chooses to,

and because it easier than arguing.

But the chase is what the child wants;

the force, what she doesn’t expect;

the fire, what the woman wants;

the desire, what makes her feel blessed.

The sudden capture makes the child giddy with mock fear;

the powerful rapture what makes the woman want you near.

It is the office of the lover to polish both sides of the stone

that it may shine more brightly in your presence than when alone.