The Swing -Jean-Honoré Fragonard
Days laced in ecstasy,
hallucinations dripping down my neck
as I stare enraptured beneath you. I hear
your voice- echoing ever softly.
But there is a pinprick of malice cloaked
beneath that silken gown of lace. Your gaze
could intoxicate a man, yet my eyes
linger, lowering ever softly. That glimpse
wakes me amidst a restless night with
sheets soaked through, longing for yet
another glimpse. Nightshade scarcely covers
my eyelids once more, and I lie, pining to once
more brush against forbidden intimacy.