Rote, by Annabelle Jane Palling.

 ROTE

There are no words but words

And lightning-shattered skies

And torrents crashing by.

There are no sounds but these

A secret whispering wind

And howling gales of joy

And earthquakes thundering.

This is more than just more

And never quite enough

My pleasure in surfeit

My skin that sings your touch.

There are no words but words

And lips and tongues and eyes

And gifts that cost us naught

And you between my thighs.

But.

Clichés are all around

Some hide a whit of truth

And even when they don’t

We tell ourselves they do.