A Man’s Lust

It’s a serene Sunday afternoon, and it’s cooler than most.

The birds engage in pillow-talk on their nests,

peacefully as they avoid breaking their eggs.

She’s making me eggs.

She’s experimenting with a new recipe,

a twist on the classic omelette,

and I’m savouring the taste of her in-between kisses.

The smooth melodies dance in the air,

saturating the space between her and me.

We’re entranced.

The bouquet whispers in red grapes from her breath;

It’s Soft and sensual, the innocence emphasised by the delicate notes of Rupert and Rothschild.

Her fingers explore, as if for the first time,

The whole time across my skin.

Nervously reciprocating and pregnant with anticipation,

I kiss her,

Looking for a way in.

Hearts beating, a dialogue, debating whether to sin,

each beat a question mark in the air.

As blood rushes, animal lust, and passion fill the room,

I grab at her as if I need to feel safe.

She smells like a warm summer’s day,

And I’m addicted to how she tastes.

I’m hungry, thrusting,

As I begin to absorb her.

Back and forth,

Back and forth,

Back and forth.

Insecurity, fear, and freedom in her energy.

Her passion, a consuming obsession.

I collapse on her,

And all that remains is the cold Sunday Jazz faintly playing in the background.

The colour returns to the picture.

I don’t want to tell her which mask she should wear today,

So I guess I’d better ask her.

~ Inspired by Ndumiso, my dearest friend.