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it's something in the way your hips collide,
where bone touches bone,
the deepest she'll allow you while
the sun's appearance is barely a whisper
over the loudness of the trees
that makes you want her.
the way you envision her moan,
her back rising into an arch,
tasting your own name as she sighs it
into your mouth and the mere
taste
of her
is the subject of your fantasies.
oh, she's got you in a rather
compromising position-
sweet words serenaded their way into your brain... she made you wonder...
now she straddles your gray matter daily,
all you think of is the taste of her pink matter.
pineapple?
water?
cotton candy?
honey,
or is she flavored like her all-time favorite,
the mango?
hmm, wouldn't you like to know..
YOU ARE READING
past oblivion.
Poetry"what can i really say?" used to be my words, when i didn't know as much. when i got older, i responded to myself. "everything." now, i realize that i can use my breath to speak on everything in existence, from dust on jupiter to the depths of hell...
