Blissful Fire

I almost wince,

I almost moan,

But I’m convinced

I haven’t groaned

When her hand on my skin

Like fire, like ice,

Led me to the brink

Of making pain my new vice…

My urge to flee, embalmed in pleasure,

Cannot move me from here, a slave to her whims,

So in this battle of love, I suffer her to win,

For she turns my fear, my loss, my pain, my gain, into our treasure.