Form: Free Verse
The trailing kisses
like salt on a wound
in burning pain
that brings comfort
yet demands her hunger
that begs for more
more leather
more skin
her pleading
my answer
more kisses
spiking the nerves in sweet torture
as her body aches
and her tears flow into cotton
while tormenting fingers
find their rhythm
the carnal want of pleasure
washing over her pain
© JG Farmer 2019
About the Jez of It 