My fingertips trace your smooth thighs. My familiar hand steers past your rounded hips and crashes into their vertex. You whisper your longing in between breaths. As my fingers tune you to the highest pitch. There will be plucking and blowing. Leading to a percussion of musical moans.
It’s misty, my eyes are not teary, just signs of rain. I’m scorched and hard, burning with desire to be your earth. You’re feisty, your eyes are fiery, justify the pain. No longer a nesting bird, I’m flowing to your hearth. We’re misty, we get all “teary”, our garments are slain. We’re in the yard, I’m speaking my worth.
One hand meets another and together they meet the bedsheets. One tongue meets another and wrestle to the pillow. One move finds another and the rhythm rocks the bed. One wave meets the other and we both drown.
I want you to follow my letters. See how I dot you eyes and cross your teats. I want you to follow my words. Feel my tongue spell on your tummy. I want you to follow my phrases. The short and the freaky of them between your legs. I want you to follow my story. The one I write and spill ink for. You want me to know just one thing.