you
before I fall asleep.
My mouth
soft and slippery
and wet
like a slope
that your tongue
ventures down
with the ease
of a violinist
slow, but clever
in his movements.
And I wonder if
anyone could do it
better
than us
feeding off each other's
rhythms.
But I hate thinking of it
and it feels so wrong
but it felt right
and I can't understand
anything
that you don't
want me to.
And you don't want
Me
too.
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