This man has a way with words,
dark eyes and a crooked smile,
an ability to wrap the senses in
both foreboding strength and
timeless poetry, sensuality, too,
risen by the fire on his tongue,
like a fox or perhaps a cat,
a wolf, a king or a bat?

It’s that wanton desire you feel
deep in the marrow of your bones,
traveling to the tips of your toes,
burning embers in your palms,
slipping under the hem of a dress,
my skepticism is soothed by throws,
like a fur blanket draped over the
shoulder of a love-victim in shock,
the deep voice, calloused fingers,
he recognizes what is his and is
unafraid to touch or claim it.

Like a set of digits raised to the
pulse in your neck, dangerous
but gentle come the still of strife,
he’ll tilt your chin into view for
the right price of a plight, and
you can bet he’ll choose to fight
for his passage right.

He won’t ask me to be anything
but the Queen to his night, my
Transylvanian throne is in sight.

– B.

One thought on “Transylvania

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