You call me witch in a delicious sort of way,
That doesn’t hint at piled wood,
Nooses, or water boarding of any kind.
Rather you rasp the word,
As if it slid slowly down your tongue
Lightly skipping each taste bud,
Committing to memory the savor of my skin,
And your eyes never leave my lips
As if you might miss one smile,
Or something more precious to you.
Good witch, or bad, I tease.
And you rumble “mine”
In a way that makes me shiver warm.
I would ask you what sorcery I do,
But you would list the things
I am without thinking,
The glow of my skin
Barely an inch from your fingers,
The tiny moan you catch in a kiss,
The arch of hip to hip,
These things you call magicks.
You call me witch,
Your hand in my hair
Holding me steady
So my eyes will not close
When you kiss me again,
Whispering my name
As if the spirits would carry it
To Hecate’s throne
Leaving me your witch,
Forever and a day
My oh so sweet Familiar.