A Most Ornate Orgasm
I have always been hopeless romantic
rather than Classical Romance,
but when you make love to me,
I feel the purest Classicist's brush
detailing the moment,
with gold-crusted scrollwork on the ends of the bed,
skin of the finest Greek marble
where your hands cross my breasts,
full but faded blue of the bedding,
the lightest veils that hang from the canopy
and the antique colors of the flowers,
the ageless scent of their petals, strewn,
mingled with the new blend of yours and mine,
carried on the warm breese of an Italian spring...
The now-married maid hangs off the bedside
upside-down, with closed lips and half-lidded eyes,
the red halo of her hair against the dark of his,
as the extacy leaves her warm
and their sweet sweat leaves her cool as he
collects her up to warm her again.
I cry when I orgasm with you,
because the Rennaisance beauty has carried me away...