Sitting in a reserved preoccupation,
Counting down the hours until the bus pulls into the station.
Consumed with an agonizing anticipation,
To once again be flooded with green fields of consumption.
The smell of a scent that is intoxicating,
The taste of sweet cream that is exhilarating.
The sight of flesh that is an art of perfection,
The sound of a voice that has lustful articulation.
Getting harder to think of nothing more,
Than seeing you come through the door.
To see you in your lingerie,
The way you move; the way you sway.
All the senses are restrained no more as my body flinches,
Gripped in your soft caressing clinches.
To have waited for that which was temporarily postponed,
Exhaustively releasing a moan.
@ Tunisia Torres
Copyright © Nacita Torres