My eyes are drawn, as always, to the hollow of your throat.
If I should lay my fingertip against it
There'd be the fluttering pulsebeat
Of the wings of a nightingale, in its gilded cage.
You have grown thin, and your fragile collarbone
Stretches through your silken skin,
Seeming like it would snap
At the touch of my hand.
I step forward, brushing your chestnut hair away.
It falls behind you, baring a gentle fullness of breast,
Small enough to fit in a cupped hand...
Taut with anticipations.
I lean, and press a kiss on one hardened nipple.
You arch, soundlessly as I taught you,
And I drink in the elegant curve of your torso,
with your slender arms stretched back,
clasping your ankles firmly.
I start rubbing the other nipple with my right hand,
While I increase the pressure of my kiss,
Until finally you break, as always, and the tiniest of moans escapes.
Reach out and caress the supple whip.
Regretfully, joyfully, anticipating the new lines of fire
That I will add to the thin, white, beautiful scars
Crossing your eager body.