Switch the radio on,
combat the solitude
rendering my bed
desolate,
lonely,
vast.
Concerto for bass guitar.
And orchestra.
Laugh through the tears.
Heard this once before,
in bed with Aimee,
spooning,
sleeping,
sort of.
Deep electric voice
echoes through my abdomen,
reverberates my cunt,
swells,
moistens,
tenderizes.
Aimee the empathy
tests the waters,
teases the short hairs
that curl across my slit,
presses wet lips
between wet fingers,
massages the hot flesh
dripping with juice.
Masterful and soft,
Aimee strokes my arrogant clit.
Familiar fingers,
nails cut to the quick,
rub harder,
faster,
longer,
stronger,
trigger explosions
from the arch of my lips
clear across the galaxy.
What is the difference
between a memory
and a fantasy?
Memories
can be switched on
by a bedside radio.
By a concerto for bass guitar.
And orchestra.
© 2007 Giselle Renarde