salacious.
she is a cruel sculptress.
like Rodin and his Rose,
we’ll ameliorate and in time, decompose.
she carves the moon into my chest,
sprawled again amongst the unrest.
she paints her face in a Miró/mirror,
our fingers catching in the soft glow.
she bites my tongue until it bleeds.
I bide the time until it recedes.
she stains the canvas with my woe,
our fingers crimson in the marble snow.