The Visitor

His prescence
Heavy in air like incense
With the oppressive silence of cathedrals
He moves

With scratching skin
Fierce fingertips forage
My skin; 'like glass', says he
And signing his name across my breast
Raises the digit to trace my mouth
Lips, lychee ripe and cupid curved,
Press full against his hot hands

And hot hands hard on my cheek
My head is turned
His breath
Electric
On my neck

I pull away to see his face -
Then
Lips bruising mine

He feeds