I imagine your lips,

soft and sweet,
crushed against mine,
delicate, a bruised flower

full of nectar,
dripping sweetness,
dropping slow honey
against your tongue.

I imagine your heartbeat as thunder,
and your touch as fire.

I crave you against all reason,
and know if you were to ask it of me,
I would submit utterly.

I am yours in all things,
for duty, for love,
for service, for pleasure.

Take note of my devotion
–it is unlike any other–
and even if
you will not love me,

witness my love,
and tell me
it pleases you.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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