Ache
To Constance Plumley
your wrists restrained
with a tie I’ve had
since you were six
years old, the kisses
applied to collarbone,
belly, nipple. How we quest
with only our mouths
when denied the use of hands,
find the given information
that much sweeter, hotter.
Is the wafer
on your tongue bread?
ice? something darker,
muskier? Your fingerprints
ask the question,
but the answer lies
in skin slid between
your lips.
Horror Sleaze Trash 