44: scared passions

if fear was an aphrodisiac
you would cum
when our eyes meet.

What can you do for me
will be consummated with a kiss.
And is better be good,
or I will kill you.
Do not falter in your attention
or reveal the terror in your soul,
show me the desire in your heart.
The desire to please me,
your lady of pain.

It hurts to love me.
Hurts where it hurts;
deep, below the skin
where it cannot ever
really heal.

A sharp pin prick imprint tattoo
on the psyche-soul. My eyes,
heavy lidded, roughed ochre,
sanguine tears leeching life
a single sorrow at a time.

Pain. Pain is my friend. My love.
She binds you to me each day,
rousing you form sleep to remind you
with an aching midnight sigh;
a lone light burning in a vast
city-scape of dreams.

Suicide of broken dreams
have fallen behind, each free
moment consumed in ablutions
at my font. Waters steaming burning
icy on the skin unquenching.

I welcome your sad smile,
an echo of a pained expression
on your brow. And I smile faintly
at your gifts, nodding at the platinum
band, the diamond edge, and the
rustle of coutured fabric.