The candle burns low, a slow dance of long fingers
without sound, sharp yet gentle, moving with the
exquisite grace of an evening tide.
Reaching to explore the contures of the corset
the ribbon pulled tight, a serpent’s tongue
unraveling the bow’s hidden plea.
Then the fingers, softer than lamplight,
knowing where silk parts from skin,
descend like nightfall, unhurried, assured.
Each button undone is a word spoken
and the corset breathes its last breath,
a sigh of surrender to the floor.
Without sound, sharp yet gentle, moving with the
exquisite grace of an evening tide, the candle burns
low, a slow dance of long fingers.
