Scent

My fingers were running away with the excitement of it all you could just taste the thrill of the catch in the air as they tripped one by one into the wolf’s lair He’d been following the scent of my dark dark red roses and the distant sight of the glow of a gauche nakedness running in the glow of the moon the whispering wind beckoning wanton trysts sensually lifting strands of my ebony hair like birdsong they flew each a chord in the Je veux être avec toi heartbeat, waving him on further in further on sentient sent he was sent scent he was the perfume of fire and of heat further in further on the undoing, my fingers played on they played on they played on Candide Diderot. ‘24