by Sudeep Sen

Under the soft translucent linen,
the ridges around your nipples

harden at the thought of my tongue.
You — lying inverted like the letter ‘c’ —

arch yourself deliberately
wanting the warm press of my lips,

it’s wet to coat the skin
that is bristling, burning,

breaking into sweats of desire —
sweet juices of imagination.

But in fact, I haven’t even touched
you. At least, not yet.