You slice garlic at my kitchen table
with five inches of fine Italian steel.
I watch concentration still your face
and tension move through your hands.
I measure the smooth length of wood between us.
If I could hone my desire it would be
a supple knife at your throat
begging for the sweet taste of skin.
If you let your guard slip
as evening scorches across the sky,
I would strike
light dripping red from my blade.
I would steal into your soul
to breathe myself into your thoughts,
clothe myself in your impulses and taste
your every idea. I would rest
inside your body and cradle
your heart between my hands.