A Bit of Back to Bite

Standard

Just give me a bit of your back, my pet,

Just a bit of your back to bite, my pet,

Just stay in range of my teeth, my pet,

Just give me another sweet night, my pet,

And let,

And let,

And let,

And let,

And let me rest safe in your arms, my pet.

 

 

 

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Phantom Fingers

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I cannot have your phantom fingers
On the nape of my neck,
Rolling over my earlobes,
Running parallel lines down my spine.
I have responsibilities.
I have schedules, calendars, deadlines.
Your hands, and their lingering indentations,
insinuations, and general implications,
need to find time in the aforementioned schedule
when I can devote the necessary mental energy
to reveling in their phantom touch.
As it stands, they are an annoyance,
a reminder that I was more agreeably occupied.
Now I have work to do.
I cannot afford to be distracted
By the ghostly sensation of pleasant pressures.
This is me, not being distracted.
Not being tempted.
Not remembering.
Am I succeeding?
No.
I am not.