Le petit mort

My breath lingers in the air but I long,

for yours to join me 

These silken sheets feel all too cool on my skin,

But roses,

Would have nothing on you

Heat blossoms from inside but you

refuse my moans,

Trapped away in your hurtling metal cage, 

my dear, I long for your skilled and heated touch.

Oh, how these cool sheets crumple

From passion, their silken indifference 

no match for,

this hot ardour and passion, 

these ripples are but candles 

to the flame

begging for you inside me

Writhing, how can I contain 

this possession of violent desire? 

I long, 

for a little death.