A Gentle Burglar

Let me tell you what I believe...

I believe

you are a gentle burglar,

that you see me by the pool

as I intend you to see me…

tightening my bottom in that

Brazilian cut nylon,

sliding the edges up my

scintillating crack, exposing my

succulent ass.

As I walk to my room, I believe

you will follow. I believe

you are a gentle burglar.

As I leave the door ajar,

I believe you will enter…

soft and adoring as a gardener

to his field, as a delivery boy bringing

a bouquet of flowers, as a butler with

a glass of sherry. I believe

you are a gentle burglar.

As you snip off

my bikini, I believe

you are a florist. I believe

you are pruning my Juliet Roses,

dispensing the leaves and my

sharp, thorny stems... tossing them aside to

admire my pink petals.

As you twist the course twine

around my sleek, fragile

neck, I believe you are securing my vines,

holding me fast against

the hard, pounding elements, against the

slick, shearing heat that singes my

velvet, against the dark rush of deep

flooding waters.

As you lay me down

softly on the terracotta tile, listless

and motionless, curdled in a

pool of my warm, liquid

sunshine, I believe I am beautiful

as summer, splayed wide

as an ocean on a sunset

horizon, smooth as a tan, sandy beach -

open and nude to your

penetrating smile.

I believe you are a

cloud pouring rain on my face,

drizzling on my breasts and the seam

of my sex, dumping your deluge

and soaking my skin. Pull it out.

Push it in. I am wet

to the end.

As you pluck off my

earrings and place them

in your pocket,

I believe

you are a gentle burglar…