I traced the darkened volume under her breast
with my thin finger. I counted out the measure
of the song on her body, I've become the artist
that breathes out love. I'm knowing the intimate
parts of her posture, the ideals that persist
in her behavior. I want her textured sex
moving above me. The way the old books thirst
for readers, the light thirsts for objects to illumine
and us to witness. I am falling in my trust
of her into a void, I am meeting a nothing
inside her. Without thought, I finally thrust
my self deep within her. She's curving her back
and lifting toward the ceiling her ripe breast.
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