Incubus

In the half-shadows, you turn to my touch, the last tongued kiss to your inner thigh a quick, wet glimmer in the light.

Your skin holds the fever of sleep, soft beneath my hands; my thumbs trace the red lines pressed into you by rough-tangled sheets.

A soft moan as my flesh slides over yours, cool to your heat, my open lips steal your breath, your sighs… movements in the dark, you open wide like a flower beneath me.