little deaths

le petit mort,
that’s what she called them,
those precious moments
when he’d let go

the sound of him,
the sight of him
basking in the
afterglow

allowing himself that moment
when nothing else mattered
but the beating of his heart,
the heightening of
every sense

a floating,
drowning,
searing feeling
leaving them
no room for
pretense

Mine – 8

when he walks towards her
she trembles
not out of fear
but of want
she yearns the feel
of his hand
on her soul
a caress that disciplines
a touch that haunts

for he teases the ghosts
that lay claim
on her past,
taunting them all
to come forth
she trembles and craves his hand
upon her
his protection
never falls short

*This is for National Poetry Month, where I’m writing on a theme. Inspired by Álvaro de la Herrán‘s video for GQ Spain called Mine