Your skin is cold where I run
Your fingertips white
Your red, red cheeks.
It is not for the weather
But the storm in your mind.
Was it something your eyes had seen
That I washed away
-but not completely-
Left from where you found relief?
Sweet release, you imagine.
As you were reined in by the guilt.
At that precise moment, un-undone,
I held his eyes which were pointed to you
Some shame, some residual ecstasy.
Which caused your teeth to contemplate upon your lip.
Your tongue sought
To taste the sin
From a distance- the difference between observation
You drown your thoughts in me
Lathering the perversion,
Regret cascading into the drain.
And your reflection
Is more unclean than before
I washed you