Breakfast In Bed

The smell of yeast and sweat
Surrounds the mound
Of soft and tender dough.
I flour my hands
And knead the folds and flaps.
They look powdered.

They make me think of you,
My hands on your
Spread thighs, your hands in my hair,
My tongue at work,
Your rising milky heat.

The mound grows smooth
And firm, a sweaty gloss
On its tan skin,
And I recall your breasts
When your nipple
Is in my mouth and my hands
Grasp their plump sides.

Everything begins
To rise. Soon I'll
Climb the stairs to wake you
For our breakfast
In bed, long hard fresh-baked
Loaves and our juice,
A sticky, hot repast
Between our legs.

Copyright© Michael S. Smith
this is fuckin sick. get a fucking life.
0
veri god
0
Only registered users can comment.