Coffee With The Incubus
Though more often cruel, silent inscrutable and hot,
the incubus has his tender moments
intimate, revealing, when he forgets
how he got his tail
and for whom he split his foot.
Then he sighs in deep indigo
like any lover, and lets me stroke his suede skin.
His scaled fingers catch and pull in my hair
but he puffs smokerings thru thin lips
and frees them with a circle of loosening steam.
Closest when the darkness is complete,
when the sun has yet
to kick the moon from his bed
and all of us are locked and loaded,
he tells me things that
were never in the contract
knows I won’t repeat them
except to ring the fey bells
of faerie back under the smooth curl
ram curved above his scarlet ear.
His voice is heated air under the hiss,
the random honesty of coffee splashing
into the cup, well creamed and sugared
drunk fragrant at the birdsong hour whendark and light at last kiss goodbye.
Soaked as a biscotti dipped and nibbled
dunked in black heat, I know
I was formed for pleasure
to be crisp and never fall apart,
but sometimes all that
wet sweetness leaves me
crumbling on the lip.
Part of the Incubus series
Image: Cup of Coffee After Dunking and Eating a Biscotti. by sameold 2010 on flick'r
Shared under a Creative Commons 2.0 Generic License