Thursday 16 February 2012

A vision of the kitchen floor.

Let me run my fingers on your back
And carve my nails into your skin
Let me caress you, hold your breath
The trip is long
No rush, no rush
Let me tiptoe on the kitchen floor
Where you lie naked and drained
Even desire has left you
Let alone fame
Let me carve my nails deeper
Till drops of your blood appear
On pink clots formed on your skin
Your drops of blood taste like fresh apples
Maturing under sunlit summer trees
Your drops of blood
Running on the edge of your lips
So inviting, so inviting
Let me caress you, hold your breath
The trip is long
Too long
Too long

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