La petite mort

is a twirling, twisting thing.

Shivering and chilled,
feverish and sweating –
the sickness is catching,
the little death is close,
and whether you’re bound
for heaven or hell
the force of it
will bury you.

Save me, damn me,
obey me, command me –
the little death is catching
through looks,
through touches,
through kisses
that blow through you
and leave you breathless.