What senses last when passion's heat abates
laid low to rest beneath sweet lover's quilt?
Perhaps, the taste of milky river rates
as well, or more, as tepid semen spilt
on cavern walls between receptive thighs.
Consider unique breath imbued with scents
from secret herbs that all too oft disguise
the wanton wench in garbs of innocence.
The eyes remember well what forms they see
nor do mute whispers pass attentive ears;
but feeling you of all seems best to me
as all of you by touch at once appears.
It's not what each or all the senses do:
they all perceive as one the perfect you.
Lorenzo Costigliolo
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/awareness-sonnet-38/
