His language would be his skin,
Rubbing against mine--desirous.
His words would be his fingers
Slowly parting the opacity,
Of my febrile, trembling body,
And entering me steadily, ceaselessly
Between my widened eyes and breathy gasps
Of dialogic, intellectual ***********
If Literature was a man.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 7:35 AM UTC
His language would be his skin,
Rubbing against mine--desirous.
His words would be his fingers
Slowly parting the opacity,
Of my febrile, trembling body,
And entering me steadily, ceaselessly
Between my widened eyes and breathy gasps
Of dialogic, intellectual ***********
If Literature was a man.
