Dance with me our foreplay of pretense and expectation.
I need to feel that suggestive touch
daring disapproval as your misplaced hand
draws shivers up my spine. Fingertips hold me closer
than the tightest moment of two lovers’ passions.
It is in the fingertips where one experiences
ultimate control, interaction, intent.
Intensity commands my interest. So touch me.
Stroke my chin with your tongue, my neck with your lips,
my back with your fingertips.
Call my womanly duties to attention
that I might elude those of family, friends, future, and religion.
Seduce my life into the savage dance
of heartbeat and humpbeat.
The instinct to compose my own legacies
will be easily smothered by this eager warmth
of your shameless hands.
I can’t suffer it anymore.
I will certainly be whisked away into insanity
should my fidgeting sense of purpose not be soothed
by the imminence
of your rerouted blood flow and
yet still pulsing fingertips.
Press your body against mine; feel
the softness of my breasts and the pounding
of music beneath my skin
as I wrap my arms behind you, coil my leg between yours,
and suck all words from your lips with a desire
beyond mere lust, but survival.
For I have yet to find a distraction strong enough
to escape from the instinct to breathe. I have only this, you,
to rescue me from the decision
of what to do with that dry rhythm.
So come now, dance with me.