Sunday, June 30, 2013
Sparks fly as the lamp meets the floor. The preternatural surviving light casts up, not down. We disregard the glittering broken glass, our hunger seeking another shattering force in the cotton-muffled quiet.
We cleave ourselves like twin sets of inverted contrasting shades, poised before blending, paused but a moment, then stirred.
Your breasts are shadows engulfing my face as I search like a babe in the night to suckle. I feast rapaciously upon your inky skin as your nether-mouth makes its meal of my willing flesh.
Fingers clutch evening-ripe fruit as dusk-imbued thrusts churn our pleasure. Shadowed wine melds with savory meat, twain mixed into ebon-hued desserts of desire.
Our palms palpate shaded silk, tongues taste luscious lux, all racing toward a black hole limned by seconds between breaths. Benighted gasps delineate proximity with their ravening pace toward an unlit destination on a darkling horizon.
We launch ourselves finally into blinding honeyed light, an explosion within uniting us at the point where we become brightened breathless one.
Fed and sated, we descend as if from twilight clouds. Though separate once more, we are joined in the glistening darkness of completion where sweet sleep awaits our arrival at night-colored doors.
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 38 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: sparks