the water of spring.

the ivory bone of her pelvis
moans.
her head spins
and she is lit--
incandescent, as if
a match had been struck
against her inner thighs.
fingers running, jumping, skipping, crawling
across her spinal chord,
shattering the porcelain,
dampening the silk.
and her flesh, it tastes like
sour apple candy
with a kick of vodka that goes straight to
your head.
there in the darkness,
underneath the streetlamps,
where the world wishes to expose you with its
impossibly orange floods of manufactured sunshine,
you hide in the places where light does not--
could never--
reach.
but somehow... she is glowing.
her whole body-- the navel pressed in easily like cookie dough,
the pink of her lower lip, the bottoms of her delicate feet--
is singing
(is begging)
for you to come
one
inch
closer.