It is not that you are good in bed
or that I never had it better.
I was born
on the feast of Vesta,
goddess of the hearth,
patron of torrent and rush
maker of all things that boil blood.
Lava, combustion, and lust.
That is why paintings
of sunsets envy my skin,
and fires wish their glow
could match the crimson
embers that glisten my eyes
after I gorge in love making.
So, my little decadence,
when you see my head tilt back,
and my mouth perform a silent howl,
when you think my eyes and skin
are about to melt off the flesh
don’t think its you that did it.
It is only my essence
manifesting itself towards its maker
calling forth the fire
that made it.