White Sunday XVII

I want to hear your spirit
softly calling me
your veins throbbing at the memory
of my touch and trespass

I want to be your addiction
your nasty little habit
that you'd barter your dignity for
your life for an afternoon
with me pumping through your veins
messing with your mind
flooding your blood
dancing in your trance

I am here, whispering your name
a mantra of possession
a sinister confession
that I want to be wanted


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.