Under the soft translucent linen,
the ridges around your nipples
harden at the thought of my tongue.
You — lying inverted like the letter ‘c’ —
arch yourself deliberately
wanting the warm press of my lips,
it’s wet to coat the skin
that is bristling, burning,
breaking into sweats of desire —
sweet juices of imagination.
But in fact, I haven’t even touched
you. At least, not as yet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Oh, spell binding sensuousness.. The last stanza was anti climatic though...