Devotion in Lace
pink lace
a heart stitched to hold me open—
black stockings pulled soft
by a thread of worship
at my waist
he knelt
not like a man,
but like a storm made flesh—
green eyes
dragging across my thigh
like a slow-lit fuse
his lips
spoke fluent worship
in the language of skin—
he kissed the place between
my pulse
and my unraveling
until the lace trembled too
his chest
a map of soft hair
and patience
his beard,
a thousand whispers
pressed into the ache of me
I didn’t come—
I was delivered.








