your palms remember warm silk of my skin travel the contours of my curves and edges your lips remember my coffee scented kiss softness into
Category: Erotica
Clay
There are days And nights Where the only thing Keeping me from Sliding completely into the abyss From becoming a shapeless Nameless blob of ectoplasm
Skin (revisited)
It is rumored that there are 50 words In the Eskimo language for snow I ponder Why are there not 50 words in the English
#tbt Saturday Afternoon Poetry
bare skin glides against my rough edges like warm sand you buff my contours smooth mouth tracing the trail of my vertebrae you become cartographer of
Manic Monday
Can you run your hands over my bare back? Tangle your fingers in my hair? Draw me into your arms make me liquid Help me
sea anemones
taste of sea in your mouth when tongues mingle explore your ear a conch shell my lips whisper poetry your fingers anemones brushing my breasts
Feline
We never talked about the monster inside me. Crouched on the bed, cold white skin, dark pupils dilated like dinner plates, your bodily fluids
