taste.

restless hands on soft smooth skin,

a work of art indeed,

fingers dance on supple flesh,

a song in mounting need.

sifting hair at nape so fine,

each strand its own lush dream,

tracing jaw and cupping chin,

a perfect pride filled seam.

etching on over full, bowed lips,

swollen with needful breath,

i bend my head, and take you in,

to taste of loves sweet death.

 

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