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She Is Poetry “Touch her where endlessly lost bobby pins have tirelessly held until they didn’t. Wrap her around your hands. Replace the flowers hidden within. Brushback behind the place she’s heard a million lies. Touch her where thoughtless last minute in place of an apology jewelry used to rub her skin raw. Soothe her. Console. Renew. Trace the scars of her yesterdays. Remember her birthday. Touch her where baby oil splashed across her under stifling Caribbean sun. Smell her adventure. Stumble around her hip bones and back dimples. She is the landscape, you the tourist. Touch her where tequila stains her breath and sharp words spill down her chin. Drink her in. Shot for shot. Tremble under the boom and roar of her thunderstorms. Drench yourself. Touch her where she touches herself, lost in thoughts of heavy rough messy passion. Dance. Writhe. Taste her. Wear her with pride. Touch her mind. of it. Dark corners and well-lit boulevards. Leave your name carved across her clavicles. Promises etched down her chest. Paint her heart a new shade of trust. Permanent. Touch her where she demands to be touched. Obey. Submit and devour. Watch her and learn. Feel that she is both fragile and steadfast. She is<b> poetry.</font></b>” ~daily-esprit-descalier  "Men need to hunt. She obviously understands this. She’s offering herself as prey. Not easy prey. But willing.” |
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"touch her where she touches herself" mmmm
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Yes, she is. "Men need to hunt. She obviously understands this. She’s offering herself as prey. Not easy prey. But willing.”
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