March 21, 2012

  • rash

    His wrinkles are my maze, sinking me deeper with time, turning me left, right, dancing me into his eyes. Darling, enfold my tenderness into your leathery trap. I'm half buried in you already. You have but to smile, to stretch those vining lines once more, and there I will settle to decompose.

     

    And then those pastel, speckled lips haunt my twilight dreams. Those lips have enshrined bliss beneath its roofs. Those lips have sanctified the unpleasant touching of saliva slicked tongues into the lust-flushing plunge of flesh into flesh. Those lips...I would run and swim and fly to die in worship of the taste of softness. Those lips taught me

     

    love is torment and the state of stuck. I am in love because I am mired in your muck. The viscosity of your memory clings in spite of gravity's outrage, binding me to the past while forbidding mobility. Your muck is my love, and it has chewed, swallowed, digested my freedom.

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