Opening my soul,
the petals of its
soft, pink, lucious,
silken flesh
become a mirror,
beckoning
all and any
to the gateway
of my swollen, naked heart.

And oh,
how does the honeybee suckle,
I remember,
approaching with a mask of
raw intention
– innocent –
but for the ravaging purpose
it knows only, yet again, to – here – ensue:

and so it does.

My blushing fortress
sways and tempts:
a feathered
floral
nudity, as,
in you float,
oh honeybee,
in pregnant pause
to share my perfumed freedom
as I blossom
with your tongue inside my lap.

Crush me, not,
but leave me torn – yet, just as gentle.
Your organic levitation swells my fancy.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 16 May, 2012