Taste (part two?)
the stocking i don on my leg for youis a treatise, a thank you,
for the luscious and langorous swipe
of your tongue on my chest
and between my breasts--
a slip that forces it's wet and hard softness
between my lips
pulling them apart
exposing them to the cool but fresh air,
halted and momentarily by your breath.
I whisper the word, but what I really mean is
"more."
More. Of you. Now. In me.
More.
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