Being beige.

The tea coloured walls
Of my beige hotel room
Are making me feel as
Taupe,
as my blankets.
I should not say “my,”
for I do not, nor would wish,
to own such a beige establishment.

Though I am somewhat partial,
to tea stained walls.

I curl with the Earl in our beige blanketed bed
and, switching off all the switches
I sit in the dark.
I retreat.
Letting the Earl scald his was down my
esophagus
Following him as he leads.
And deep within myself,
Where all is beating, pumping, pulsing
velvet RED;
I know I am not beige.