his pulse is firm, his hands insist,
as i mold to his form:
an offering pure in lust and bliss
so even flesh conforms.

the night seeps underneath the door
and into his dark eyes
which prick my skin and start the war
with beauty as its prize.

what he demands i freely cede
and wait for the reprise:
another round of growing need
and asking, gently, please.

a thousand deadly drops of sweat
merge inside our hands,
to seek the beat and make a threat
where pleasure seeks to stand.

and when the battle's all but won
his skin declares the right:
that even when the war is done
it's only for the night.