Handed down to my senses

Photograph Don't call us, we'll call you by David Samson

As you forced me to the ground, tied me up to this branch, grabbed me by my hair and pulled my head backwards, you allowed me merely to feel. Not merely but generously you handed me down to my senses. Last sunbeams warmed my skin, birds singing their last song, buzzing bees searching for honey, the smell of fire made me restless, the sweet smell of grass that tickled, the branch that scratched my tighs. But most of all the strength of your hands, your clothing upon my naked skin, your breath in my hair, your whispers in my ear, your weight upon my body. You took me to our secret garden where the fire heaten our fantasies, where the cruel sun burned my tormented skin and lighted up your eyes. Where your knife caressed my inviting skin, leaving filmy cuts, feeding the thirsty earth. Where even more darker dreams earthen, silently waiting to revive.