Brush And Canvas
Soft caresses in the twilight hush.
by Linda Marie Van Tassell
Eyelids closed in a state of ecstasy.
He is the painter; his tongue is the brush
sliding down the canvas of my body.
His large hands and his sensuous fingers
stroke lush imagery for all to see.
I can feel his touch, the way it lingers,
beautifully making art out of me.
He paints like summer, in warm strokes of fire,
with soft, wet lips of tantalizing sin.
Urgent and hot, with hunger and desire,
his brush moves in, around, then out and in.
His body heat melts all hesitation,
and the tender blossoms seem to ignite.
His touch is teasing, a sweet lustration.
He strokes so slowly in the dark of night.
Sigh! I push his hand harder against me.
I cry out with pleasure, arching my back.
A breath-stopping instant - delivery!
The brush slides down the glistening crack.
Petals of passion are pressed into vein.
The canvas changes, moving fast and slow.
His tongue sliding softly drives me insane,
and he opens his eyes to watch me go.
Ripeness exudes - little passionflower,
deliciously aching into the dawn.
Lost in abandon and lost in the hour,
I fall away in the breath of a yawn.
Sweetly spooning in languid affection,
we sleep among flowers and fields of rain.
He is the painter, my predilection.
His tongue is the brush of my fevered brain.