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Le petit mort

  • Writer: Lalima
    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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