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Press him down: feel his tremor,
the quake that runs through his body,
the flushed warmth of his skin,
the lascivious give of his flesh.
Keep him there: pinned, framed
within the territory of dreams and conquests-
Between the long muscles of his thighs
upon the graceful lines of his torso
recall Endymion’s hold over the moon.
But the sigh from his tender mouth,
the wet gleam of his glance
is the delicious feeling of some fatal warning
sapping the strength of this longing.
To gain him is to lose myself
Maybe just a little.

The conscious shape reality.

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The following comments are for "Wistful"
by Furius

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