A scent of bourgeois, lost, in the carnal depth,
en morphine et codéine, where the silk sheets whisper.
The darkling’s moan under the taut skin of midnight,
and lips, swollen like a promise, tracing the hollows.
Where desire has no name only the wet pulse,
of a wrist pressed to teeth, unraveling of what we call sin.
You are the bruise I keep pressing each time,
the ache sings louder, the dark isn’t empty it is your mouth.
Draped in stolen wine and the last word we couldn’t say,
we don’t pray here, we don’t lie, we simply arch into inevitable,
like black roses bending toward the first forbidden light.
The dark is not absence but a slick insistence of tongues,
charting the salt-sweet map of a body unmade.
Your shadow between my thighs, the cool hush of satin,
against overheated skin, the cruel tease of restraint.
Your fingers like commandments I am desperate to disobey,
let the dawn stay forgotten, let the moon slide low.
There are sermons in the way you touch me,
every heresy more sacred than the last.
Over the wreckage of our hunger, no, not wreckage,
this is the alchemy of flesh: how we turn darkness,
Into a language more fluent than prayer.
Touch me like you’re proving the existence of god,
A scent of bourgeois, lost, in the carnal depth.
