Twain
The ways we open and enter
each other -- with hopeful lust
turning the locks; the mouths
we bare, for the solace of a single
stone kiss.
What is more beautiful than
these paltry embraces of two
visitors to the body's hard-
won, if transitory, realm?
The push and thrusts
we take and share; the clock
of lips, timing their avid omens --
wet breaths sparring for
a few mournful tokens.
a few mournful tokens.
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Author's Note
Lust is a strange lock.
Other stories by Philip F. Clark
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You've changed this I think from when you first put it up. I liked it the way it was but I also like this edit too.
Correct me if I'm wrong.
I did change it, Samuel; the second and third stanzas are reversed.
The metaphor works
Clever, insightful, tactile (and a few other things swirling around). *
Beautiful, especially the last stanza. **
*