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