POEM: House of Lust

“The ceaseless labour of your life is to build the house of death.”

      – Montaigne, Essais

 

 

I built my house from lust;

From that moment

Before skin touches skin

When my hand hovers

Above

Her curving thigh –

That moment

When lips pause, part,

And gasped breath

Passes from one to the other –

That moment

That fraction of time

Before he slips himself

          between my legs.

I built my house of lust;

Of cravings, heat, and sweat

Of almost,

Moments,

Heartbeats.

 

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