Longing the pulse of bossa nova,
with slow parting wanton lips…
sweeten by Cognac’s Grand Marnier.
With a brush of palm on throat’s airway,
unhurried motion of silent innuendo,
tracing the edge of your smile.
As a shadow falls on the wall,
holding on to the rhythm,
of the twilight throbbing.
Bleeding into the darkness,
with the lingering heat,
rising to the cadence.
Drowning in taboo of intimacy,
longing the pulse of bossa nova,
echoing what had been unsaid.










