Cold Shoulder

She touched him so light with a ghost of a hand, 
from shoulder to neck, tracing every line. 
She craved to embrace him, to make a last stand, 
to coil like ivy around his spine. 

But hands kept on stalling, so hungry and hot— 
a breath on the ear like a flash of pure fire. 
One moment of ice, then a red fever shot; 
just waiting for him to unleash her desire. 

She’s on the edge, just starving for the touch, 
but he only teased, slowing down the charade. 
To feel him so deep, to want him too much— 
but he turned to ice, and the game was delayed. 

He played it so cruel, skin and mind combined, 
sucking the silence, breath by stolen breath. 
Gasping for air as the heat and hunger grind, 
sinking so low to the brink of her death. 

He didn’t rush; he dissected each part. 
Ghost fingers clawed right across her chest. 
She prayed for his hand to reach for her heart, 
to close up the circle, put soul to the test. 

He stripped her so slow, taking full control. 
Patience had snapped as she reached for his waist. 
She grabbed for his belt, losing part of her soul, 
but he shackled her wrist—such a bitter taste. 

Driven to the wall, as her legs gave way, 
the world went to black, such a spin in the head. 
He caught the fall, where she wanted to stay, 
so beneath him now—taken, drowned, and led. 

He asked so low, like a desert in his tone, 
barely a whisper, chilling to the bone: 

— What do you want? 

— You. 

— You’ll never have me. You’ve wasted my time. 
  You shouldn’t have played with this heart of mine. 

She’s on the edge, just starving for the touch, 
but he only teased, slowing down the charade. 
To feel him so deep, to want him too much — 
but he turned to ice, and the game was delayed. 

He played it so cruel, skin and mind combined, 
sucking the silence, breath by stolen breath. 
Gasping for air as the heat and hunger grind, 
sinking so low, crushed by her death.