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Mirror of the Wanting Mare
I see her in the glass—my mother’s ghost,
a porcelain mask cracked with cheap rouge.
Each dawn she paints the ruin, layer on layer,
though no man waits to split her open at home.
She prays for the stranger who will read
the famine in her eyes, the battle-scarred mouth
that begs without sound.
A warhorse gone to seed, still stamping for the spur.
He will come—thick, merciless—
and cram the narrowed, sour passage full,
drive until she remembers she is flesh.
In a cubicle’s fluorescent confessional
or the stockroom’s dark, her scream will rise
like steam from a cracked kettle.
Hair unpins itself, a black river down her back;
lipstick melts into the spit and seed.
Sweat blooms on the heavy, maternal curves—
no deodorant can bury that risen heat,
that female musk thick as confession.
I watch her body arch, a bow drawn for war,
pores weeping the salt of unspoken years.
In the mirror she is me, and I am her—
the same starved slit, the same eternal thirst,
dressed in younger skin, still waiting
for the thrust that never quite arrives.
The Vixen’s Vigil
I rise while shadows cloak the quiet room,
a thief in dawn’s soft gray.
She sleeps face-down, her body’s hidden bloom
exposed by one light sway
of linen drawn away in silent doom.
Her curves reveal a rash from cheap attire,
warm blotches on the skin.
The air holds traces of her secret fire,
a climate deep within,
uncooled by night or morning’s brief desire.
I creep like fox to nest in guarded peace,
my breath a silent guide.
I sink into the valley’s warm release,
where hidden scents abide—
a salt of sleep, a musk that never cease.
Time fades in waves of earth and distant smoke,
inviting, never harsh.
My hand attends in circles softly stoked,
while her warm depths emboss
my lungs with honest notes no priest evoked.
In this hushed shrine of flesh so ordinary,
I find a quiet grace.
The worshipper within the sanctuary
breathes in her unguarded space,
and hungers for the cloud that lingers there.
Morning Sigh Confession
Your lips meet mine in dawn's unfiltered light,
A rush of warmth escapes your sleeping mouth.
It tastes of night, of secrets held too tight,
That sweet and musky breath, a private drouth.
My clit awakes, a shiver soft and deep,
From this raw scent no morning rinse has claimed.
It speaks of dreams where bodies slackly weep,
And pillows bear the drool that goes unnamed.
I crave to be that linen, soaked and stained,
The cloth that caught your open, helpless sigh.
Your slack-jawed heat, your essence unrestrained,
The proof you lived unfiltered through the night.
Breathe deeper now, let ripe desire unfold,
And drown me in the truth your body told.
Sonnet to Her Mouth
Those swollen lips, forever glazed and wet,
press mine with slick, insistent suction’s kiss.
They gleam beneath the gloss she can’t forget,
a mirror to her endless, hungry bliss.
Her porcelain teeth—too vast, too coldly white—
flash like a future forged in fake desire.
Unnatural rows that bite the tongue of night,
yet suit the slutty curve that sets me afire.
Oh Romcus, breathe your heat into my core,
spit thick and warm, let morning’s musk cascade.
I’d drown in foam of saliva, beg for more,
inhale the ripe, unwashed scent you’ve made.
If hotels steamed your breath in jacuzzi haze,
I’d never leave—your spit my endless blaze.
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