His touch is gentle, even through the need
that runs through both of you; and you can feel
the silky blackness of the ties, the ones he loves.
One around your wrists, binding your hands,
one loose around your throat, not tight, and one
placed with care across your face, over your eyes.
He steps back, and you can't meet his eyes
(but since you can't, it's the one thing you need)
"You good there?" he says, and you give one
nod, trying not to tremble at the feel
of a warm steady gun-callused hand
touching you with desire and with love
He's not the sort of person you should love;
not a fed, because they're eye for an eye
tooth for a tooth, hard metal cuffs for hands
that lead to metal cages, where the need
for freedom is lost beneath the feel
of cement. But, oh, but-- he's the one
that you did in fact let catch you, not one
time but twice. A gesture of love
(or something) that you think he feels.
There's brilliant wit behind his eyes
and sometimes you think that he needs
to bind not just your ankle, but hands
and sight. And mouth, but that's what hands
are for, with fingers you can nibble, one by one
and draw from him the rough sounds of need.
He groans and bites your neck, a mark of love
that you will later leave open to any eye
because you are his; both of you feel
the rightness of this fact, just as it feels
right to have him grip you with his hands
In darkness, blacker than a blinking eye
Everything is deeper; you are both one
He touches you, and holds you, and you love
him more than you ever thought you'd need.
You don't ever say "I love you"; there's no need
When every one of your reactions he can feel
And sightless, your bound hands are now your eyes.