The measure of man's suffering
Is the man
And I make you suffer
By breathing silence
Down your neck
You shiver in my absence
As I trace my fingers
Between your shoulderblades
Making you sigh and strech
Brushing my palm against your belly
Spreading my fingers
I feel the beat of our children
Unborn, unconcieved
My touch becomes firm as I
Grasp your thighs
There is a sharpness, a sweet pain
Under your breath
I slide down your slender legs
Down to the last toenail
Painted crimson red
The measure of man's suffering
Is the man
And I am yours
