hedon.

he brings

desire

from the unfathomable depths of the vessel i call myself.

he stares at me

with those sharp eyes of his

breathes against the satin soft of my skin

pressing feathers; kisses and the ghost of the touches

raising goosebumps

and leaves me shivering.

i gasp when his teeth barely

graze

break the skin

draw the wicked wine

he gets drunk on it

on me.

and oh,

he moves with grace

smooth, a little complex

he fits perfectly.

he sings me,

he celebrates me.

our footfalls echo in the path to the rose garden, to the door which Eliot and Hale didn’t open.

the gate opens to the Bel Air

of pleasure

heavy with lust

for life

and for death.

for the bed of roses

for the thorns in between.

for the newlyfound one,

who’s more than Venus

for the boy between my legs.

he sighs,

the pronounced cupid bow of his lips catches my eyes

he dives again,

holding me with a touch

so sensual

so intimate

my lips taste the tears.

the bruised skin shines under the gaze of the moon

the silver hue on his face,

the shadows dance on his face,

like the maenads of Dionysus.

he looks like an illusion.

the whispers turn to moans

my breath is hitched.

the sheen of sweat

trickling down the neck,

back arching,

my lover takes the swig of the wicked wine, poisoning every inch, every pore of his.

dark eyes stare into mine

holding my attention,

“Persephone,” he whispers.

is that who i am?

i taste the pomegranate in his words,

while kissing the tainted juice on his tongue.

i marvel at him for one another time,

raising my chin,

a toast to him worshipping me,

he shifts the seasons,

makes the spring come alive,

in the cold dead winter,

he trades daffodils with the hedonistic ash.

(Image from Pinterest)