So what’s the next thing on your lips? The word could be leave or silence might come up from your lungs screaming, “Give me something to hold on for.” I could write moans across your body Hemingway couldn’t put into phrases; Sex for salvation you’re your own saviour – My hands broke the bread.
If you were to speak now, I wonder how many sighs of ecstasy would be necessary as I grip your thighs. Would any number be overdoing it? Let’s overdose; I know fear when I see it stalking in the corner of someone’s eyes, and baby that’s not it roaring in yours.
Look what’s hanging now – Anticipation herself on the precipice, begging; Kisses upon your navel to resurrect every nerve cell that thought it would never be touched lightning hot, boom – Thunder, I’ve already struck. The next thing on your lips will be, “More!” followed by me. There is no such thing as enough