Though nowadays we seldom speak
But keep as still as mice,
We used to make the bedsprings creak,
And not just once or twice.

We threw our bodies into lust
Like logs onto a fire
And didn’t let a speck of dust
Descend on our desire.

And so we kept our beacon lit,
Throughout both day and night,
And didn’t keep it down one bit
But squealed with sheer delight.

The echoes, though, of that have died,
As, on our skins, the sweat has dried.

Photo by Simon Berger on Unsplash

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