Le petit mort
- Lalima

- Apr 27, 2024
- 1 min read
This sheer muslin feels a cumbersome cerement
Under my touch which craves your fingers to navigate me through idioms of love...
Sensual planes, velvety grottoes, irrepressible hungers.
The midnight incense burns magical scents, your sweat, my effluence, our love
Iotas of muslin encircle the flames of our bodies in motion...
I call out your name to the heavens in myriad cries.
My hair tangles in your fingers like the clinging vines to its trellis
Heaving chests pound in league with hooves drumming the earth...
Your skin merges into my breath as I curl my toes in le petit mort.





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