His lips
remind me of the plump
bodies of two butterflies making love,
natures expression
of hedonistic desire.
And his scent
smolders, disavowing pheromones
beneath the quivering skin of my belly ring.
I can taste the
torture of his moon-draped pupils,
it is utterly the manifestation of my least purest dreams.
Reflections of my salvation mingle between
the plates of our tonsils, versus of penetration
bellow from the flickering roots of vulgar ink blots.
He is inside me,
from a distance. drilling
oblique flattery from heavens spine…
and he is more edible to my thoughts
then the delicious murder of an angels wings.
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