Author Information
Combustion
Folder:
Early Years - Risque
My Love,
When your hands often cold
Turn to fire
On my skin
You tell me something
That fills me with desire.
Lips then loose their shape
And become a burning sensation
I feel your blood rushing
As mine catches up,
Happily
I touch you
Everywhere warm
Now I’m boiling
Our clothes must have been
Burned away
I don’t remember
Our bodies sweat to cool
While I probe you
To know how hot is your fire
Slowly writhing with joy
Our temperatures go down
Then we gain our senses,
“Don’t be guilty, it wasn’t arson”
“But spontaneous combustion and
We didn’t get burned.”
