Sultry centuries could tell you this about wanting; it is the soothing, sweet fruit in which every lover bores. The seeds are planted in the heart, laboured in the summer when that blossom of desire blooms.
My heart disgusts at how easy it is to try and ensnare you in the sweat of my passions. I threaten to walk up your lane and rumple your tie - turn your collar loose, muse that ****** crop of hair, fog up those glasses and leave you with the clammy sheen of tonight.
I dipped my fingers in the cool waters of the sun, you know - and she blistered me with second sight, tearing my skin ablaze with that chill of need. I’d like to rip from you the laces of your shoes, break the aglets, tear off your belt loops, welt your leather belt.
Desire is cupid’s wine, and I hate to be full of it. The earth has told me to push itself towards you in ***** splendor. I would only crumple the crotch of your dress pants, kiss the crook that builds your nose, breathe something new into that old mouth.
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 6:19 PM UTC
Sultry centuries could tell you this about wanting; it is the soothing, sweet fruit in which every lover bores. The seeds are planted in the heart, laboured in the summer when that blossom of desire blooms.
My heart disgusts at how easy it is to try and ensnare you in the sweat of my passions. I threaten to walk up your lane and rumple your tie - turn your collar loose, muse that ****** crop of hair, fog up those glasses and leave you with the clammy sheen of tonight.
I dipped my fingers in the cool waters of the sun, you know - and she blistered me with second sight, tearing my skin ablaze with that chill of need. I’d like to rip from you the laces of your shoes, break the aglets, tear off your belt loops, welt your leather belt.
Desire is cupid’s wine, and I hate to be full of it. The earth has told me to push itself towards you in ***** splendor. I would only crumple the crotch of your dress pants, kiss the crook that builds your nose, breathe something new into that old mouth.
