By C.E. Quatmann
Copyright ©2025
The first touch—her humid breath;
a flame ignites along my neck,
a whisper trailing, soft & wet—
her words command, my pulse begets
the first touch—her humid breath.
Toward my lips, her heat aligns;
desire burns, my body signs
its plea beneath her soft confines:
The first touch, her humid breath.
My spine will arch, in silent prayer,
my skin alight, her hands aware,
each shiver begs for her to dare—
the first touch, her humid breath
About C.E. Quatmann:
C.E. Quatmann (she/they) is a disabled and queer poet and writer. She is the author of the poetry chapbook Yoke (MyrtleHaus 2024), and Editor-in-Chief for HNDL Mag. Her writing is published in or forthcoming with Little Old Lady Comedy, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Neologism Poetry Journal, manywor(l)ds, samfiftyfive, and others. Find her online @CaitiTalks
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