softly gently you rip at my core
and touch its rawness with tender care
it renders me weak, but strong
as your dance of fingers
plays a requiem of sorts
an ode to the little death

within that rush I die a million deaths
and I am reborn
by the resurrection of your touch

My breath is spirited away
in a brief dance of ecstasy
my very being, ruptures
and I become a force of nature
and a river flows
from my deepest fountains

in the after-tremors, briefly
I find myself yearning
one last taste
of you

one last drop of ember
oh whisky bottle
just one…

(c) 2014 allen simpson