Whiplash

I miss the way it bites and slaps;
my lover now is far too smooth.
I miss all the colors and tastes of its traps,
where now their intentions are only to soothe.

I daydreamed its danger, bit my lip at the thought,
bared all the abuse for the bliss that it brought,
made my peace with the fire, howled wild at the moon,
always woke with a promise; always broke it too soon.

Now she’s calming, and caring, and charming, and kind,
puts a stopper in pain, moves my mind to unwind,
picks me up from the downs many lovers infused,
but leaves me wanting for whiplash,
for my skin to be bruised.

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