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Your hands are silent executioners, each finger a hungry guillotine
Your hands are silent executioners, each finger a hungry guillotine,
Let them glide over me slowly, like penance flowing as a slow river,
Let them cut every last fragment of restraint that still binds us,
This is not seduction, but a butchery of desires hidden beneath the skin.
I want your breath to be a burning pyre in the deep night,
Your mouth to become a tombstone, a sign of eternal silences,
Your hips to be the event that extinguishes worlds and creates chaos.
When I unravel beneath you, let it be a cataclysm of the senses,
Not a silent confession, but an explosion of worlds shattering within us.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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