In the end though . .
innuendo
Lines,
yet no lines.
Form,
but still forming.
Persuaded,
this way
then that.
Whisper smooth
as a feather’s fall,
you move to me
and I can see
you wearing me tonight,
as haute couture.
In the end though,
innuendoes,
shine on skin,
our silver skin.
Blood rush anticipation,
brings hushed emancipation.
Sweet touch,
yet untouched. - Steven A. Jones