La Petite Mort. A poem.

She chokes the life out of you
Her not so subtle fingers
Silencing your protests
Her oh so subtle features
Blurring to incomprehension

Your last breath exhales
A death rattle motion
Her not so subtle fingers
Lighting up a cigarette
Reflecting on her oh so subtle features

She’s ready to wake you
And start again

 

Despite what you might think after reading this poem, I am not into passing out during sex. The subject made for an interesting poem, though.

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