The rooms smells like cigarette smoke.
You, you smell like cigarette smoke, too.
And sweat, dancing all night,
and perfume, I don't know the scent,
and your breath has wine on every exhale.
Your skin, which is defined by a velvet top,
is cool to the touch,
and now, with no light but moonlight,
is pure white.
Your face disappears as I pull down the top,
and your breasts well up,
round, red-tipped hard.
I have never forgotten the texture,
rough, tight, your nipples framed between
my teeth.
Or the sound you made, the way your hips
pressed against me,
as I flicked my tounge.
Deb, I cannot really remember your face
so many years gone by
but I remember your stomach,
and your breasts, full
amazing, held between my hands.
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