It happens to me, or rather I ___.
That uppon a thought of a joly day get suddenly ambushed and become a prey.
I'm walking down a mundane street when I notice a stranger's feet.
What happens to my mind? does it walks on innocent and gay?
No it stops. It lapses!andlapses!andjumps!and screeches.
My fingers don't curl.don't.bend.they contract and pulse and I scrape my sides.
I'm being watched so I stop.
I walk.
There's a few meters to go to that second a few hours ago when I commented on my lover's foot in my vagina. It's not something I care for nor something I scare, let it be known, heavens forbid I actually admit to having fantasies.
I'm answering the phone to another fucking caller when my mind drags up
the drudgery of finding a rhyme to end this concertina.
I have to. I have to write about this disgust also. Disgust myself with my what things I've or said and done.
I'm besieged with thoughts of my enamoured time in the shower with my lover. Slitherin skin.
Oh this one, I love him, I admire him, I'm intimidated by him and I love him again.
For every ten lovers I love dearly fondly non-commitently and sanely, one!floats!by.
Drags me weary and makes me wary. Wary of his delicately bearly therely stroke of my thumb. How my lungs lunge when they lunch on his. Of my flute he plays as he fondles my nave.
Oh this one I would gladly write letters to and blog post our animal nights together as I soothe my bruised pubic bone today Monday in the office. Full of dirty dishes and dripping kisses. But most gladly of all, I'd wake a foreigner's god, to be rid of the cursive curse of saying, in a soaken mess "me too" when I misheard "let's undress".
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