Her Drink
She knows what her taste buds wants
The way the vintage wine
Slithers down her throat
Cooling every harsh memory of the day
Calming the nerves of loneliness
Her drink she knows how to mix
Cocktails refined over a lifetime of maturity
A collector of late harvest wine
The older matured in barrels the better
She knows which grapes make which wine
A lover of the classics
Tuning into her mystic self
Sparkling wine from South of France
Her very own obscene obsession
Gaillac, Bugey, Cre^mant d’ Alsace maybe even Blanquette de Limoux
An avid appreciation for all Red, White wine
She loves the curves of her tall wine glass
She relishes the sound of wine as it pours into the glass
Wondering its mystery, is it citrus, orchard or tropical fruit wine
Down her thirsty throat it goes smoothly
Her drink, her very own weakness

Her Body
She knows every inch of her curves
The chest that defines her femininity
Arms that know how to hold tender
Lips that have tasted luxurious kisses
Eyes that have closed shut
In moments of pure indescribable bliss
Her nose has smelt the scent of him
Registering to regions unexplained by man
Every inch of her skin
Perfumed with exotic herbs, spices, fragrances
So when he touches
He is lost in explosions of uninhabited proportions
Her waist is a wonder
A mystery foretold yet unable to completely understand
A pool where mortal men disappear to
And never want to leave
Authentic hips that seduce yet discipline
Dance, then mesmerize at the same time
Legs created to stride in confidence
Yet weak whenever his skin touches
Able to curve around his neck
Compromise sanity over self indulgence
Her body is a masterpiece of art
Sculpted to be the very downfall of his needs
Weapon of war in the boudoir
Her body, her very own madness

Her man
She knows every depth of him
Understands the element that make him
His eyes she cannot turn away from
Those eyes break down her blood vessels
Speak in languages not mastered
She loves those shoulders, broad, sculpted
His chest her weakness
Like a chain smoker she can’t quit him
Addicted to his waist
Like melted iron ore in a burning volcano
His hands her skin a slave to them
How he collapses her resolve she knows not
How he breaks down her fears she’s mesmerized
Speak not of his lips
They claim her in every sense
Opening her pores, her bossom, her waist, her insanity
All in a mili-second of their touch
His waist, oh the bloody waist
Poetry is not enough
To explain her need to taste that feeling
Devoted only to him
He the only creature to unravel her
Peel every obstacle of showing her nakedness
She knows how to hold him
How to make him surrender his manliness
Mastered the art of unmanning him
So he lays helpless at her feet
Her man, her very own lunacy

Copyright October 2016
Mulunga Alukwe


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