Same Silk Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

A spider's parlour is nothing without a silk negligee torn loose onto the twist pile carpet.
The room is an echo chamber — I can hear my heart, but no other sound is present.
And yet a thread is about my waist, tightening.
Once bound, I gasp,
she drinks every atom of my life,
but still, even now, I am ballooning off course to exactly where she wants me —
she has removed her clothes,
each garment entangled with my appendages, my bones.