L'autre

Your rings run
ribbons through my hair,
fingers through my cerebellum,
daggers through my right ventricle.
So polished and precious and luminous
and clearly invisible when the lights go out.
When no moans but ours punctuate the shadows
and our silhouettes push their syncopated boundaries.
Bathed in sweat and pheromones and decadence,
skin vibrating beneath demonstrative hands
that circle my neck and pull me deeper.
Leaving angry red trails that bruise
and diminish all but a memory,
that still never tarnishes
those gold rings.